


My Will's Not My Own

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, BAMF!Lestrade, BAMF!Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstanding, Moriarty is a creepy fucker, PTSD, Post Great Game, Post Traumatic Stress, Rape, Victim Blaming, no really, non-con, seriously heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 45
Words: 50,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bomb exploded, and Sherlock was kidnapped in the immediate aftermath of the Great Game. Moriarty has come up with a plan to discredit him, and it works perfectly: everyone believes that Sherlock <i>wanted</i> to have sex with Moriarty, and it's turned his life upside down. He doesn't fully understand what happened, and Moriarty is still out there - and he's making promises to come back.</p><p>But now that John, Lestrade and Mycroft have found out the truth, they're going to do everything they can to protect Sherlock and give Moriarty what he deserves. The real question is whether or not they can ever make it up to Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a prompt on the BBC kink meme.
> 
> Please read the warnings and tags. I do my best to warn for anything potentially triggering for a reason, and what I'm warning for may be considered fairly explicit by some. Take note, loves.

It’s dark when Sherlock opens his eyes. It only takes him a second, _less_ than a second, to realize it’s because he’s blindfolded. The cloth is thick and heavy and allows not even a sliver of light to filter through, but it can’t stop the rest of his senses from kicking into overdrive. He can smell sweetness and smoke, dark and heavy, and something almost chemical, though he can’t place what that might be. He can hear shuffling over the pounding in his head, the sort of footsteps that someone makes when they don’t want to be heard, and the whisper of ropes sliding against each other. He can feel said ropes around his arms and legs and a breeze trailing over his body, his _naked_ body.

More than all of that, though, he can feel pain, starting low in his ankles and thighs and travelling up through his belly and ribs and chest, into both arms, into his head, where it clashes with the pounding and becomes an explosion that makes it impossible to think. With it comes the memory of what happened last: the pool, with John, and watching Moriarty’s smirking face as he aimed the gun at the vest and pulled the trigger. He remembers John’s arms around him and his feet leaving the ground, the rumbling and crackling of the world as it disintegrated around them, and then... nothing. 

The most important question, then, is John. Where is he? Has he been hurt? Is he close to Sherlock or have they been separated? Was he taken? Is he still alive? It all tumbles, chaotic and jagged, through his mind and his breath quickens under the onslaught: a rudimentary mistake because he hears chuckling, a dry, rasping sound that is at once familiar and foreign. He shifts, or tries, the burn of the rope indicating that he will not be able to move far no matter how much he squirms. 

And then, against his right thigh, the dry pad of a finger.

“Sherlock, oh Sherlock. My, what a mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Moriarty.

His mouth is dry. It hurts to talk. He swallows first, trying to produce saliva, but the effort fails and just makes the raw tissue of his throat burn. How long has he been unconscious for? He still tries for jovial disdain. “To be fair, this mess is not entirely my fault. I believe that you had a hand in it.”

“Of course. Daddy couldn’t stand by and let you fumble everything up,” Moriarty replies. His voice is light and cheerful: he’s pleased. Well, of course he is. Sherlock is tied up naked and at his mercy, which is likely everything Moriarty has been dreaming of since before this game of theirs even began. “You see, Sherlock, I had believed that my warning to you might be enough. I thought you were smart enough to stay away. But it seems that, as always, you’ve exceeded my expectations.” 

Another touch, this time to his chest, an index finger and thumb of the right hand. They curl around his left nipple and close suddenly, pinching hard and viciously, with a twist that leaves him biting down hard on his lower lip to keep from crying out at the shock and unexpected burn. Moriarty chuckles again, breathlessly this time, and lets ago as abruptly as he’d grabbed on. Blood floods back into the injured nipple and that hurts almost as much as the pinching. 

“It seems,” he continues quietly, “that you require something rather more vivid that will stay with you. I hadn’t thought things would end up this way between us but now that it has I can’t say I’m upset. You are a beautiful man, as it happens.”

“Sex,” Sherlock says with a sneer to disguise the way his stomach is clenching. “I hardly think that will be enough to stop me from taking your web apart one insect at a time.”

“No?” Moriarty says and that’s _all_ he says, it seems he thinks that one word is enough to get his point across. His whole hand comes down this time, sliding across Sherlock’s belly, down to where his flaccid penis is lying against his thigh. He’s not interested, of course, but if Moriarty cares about this there is no indication. He takes Sherlock’s penis in hand and holds it there, like he’s trying to weigh it or perhaps he’s giving it a good inspection as though it’s meat he might be inclined to buy at the store. Sherlock lays tense under this perusal and his skin itches like he’s been touched with grime that he wants, needs to wash off.

Moriarty rubs a finger across the hair around his penis, idly like, and when he breathes out again a waft of hot air washes across Sherlock’s belly. It takes everything he has to remain still and not flinch away. He bites down even harder on his bottom lip and feels the skin begin to split under the pressure, letting the taste of copper flood his mouth.

More touching, then, lightly, across the base of his shaft, rubbing gently at the tip, teasing the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs up the length of it, sliding beneath the foreskin, encouraging the head to peek out. Sherlock’s breath quickens as arousal begins to pool low in the base of his spine, hot and sweet, just the way it does when John gives him that crooked smile. _John_. His chest hurts and he closes his eyes in spite of the blindfold, loathing his body more now than he ever has before. How could it respond to someone like Moriarty when he has John waiting for him at home? Dear John, who has only just tentatively accepted Sherlock into his bed, who does not deserve any of this.

“Here we go,” Moriarty says. There is movement and then more touching around his thighs, the warm rub of skin on skin, and Sherlock realizes that Moriarty is sitting on him, straddling his thighs. He’s naked too, and his skin is oddly rough, not sensuous at all, and he can feel bile and blood choking him before he swallows again and again.

“My Sherlock, what a big cock you have,” he says.

“I had no idea how sensitive you were,” he says.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hates him, hates him more than anything or anyone else, and he wishes that John or Lestrade or even Mycroft would come through the door and stop this. But there is no one and nothing, just the feel of Moriarty balancing above him, lining them up and then sinking down, and a delicious burning heat that surrounds him from root to tip. He’s never felt this before and he has to bite his lip again to stop the moans from rolling out. With the blindfold, he can almost imagine that he’s somewhere else, that it is John above him, lovely John who is fucking himself while Sherlock lays there helpless, and like that it’s _good_.

He still can’t move, is still trapped by rope, and that is some consolation, that he can’t participate even when his thighs tremble with the urge to thrust up, hard and fast, chasing that ever elusive feeling. Moriarty is not keeping quiet, he’s groaning loudly and with abandon, his hands braced on either side of Sherlock’s face as he uses his legs to power his body up and down. He clenches purposely with every slide up like he’s trying to keep Sherlock inside of him and then breathes out on the way down, swivelling his hips like an invitation to play. He changes his rhythm from slow and deep to fast and shallow, never giving either of them a chance to become acclimatized to the sensations.

He also never stops speaking.

“Sherlock, you feel enormous, you’re such a good fuck. I want to keep you here forever, my god, this cock of yours... I could cut it off and put it in my drawer, take it out at the end of a frustrating day when I need something good to take my mind off of those idiots who work for me. Oh, I think Daddy’s going to come soon, how are you doing? It’s almost time for the big surprise, sweetheart, you’re going to love it. Be glad that I have plans for you or I really _would_ keep you. Here we go now!”

One hard thrust down, muscles tightening, and Sherlock shakes apart under the onslaught of pleasure, his hands fisted, body tense to keep from moving, teeth dug so deeply into his bottom lip that blood seeps into his mouth as a hot wet feeling splatters against his chest. Moriarty moans long and loud with satisfaction, and then hands are fumbling with his blindfold, bringing the room into stark view; there’s just enough light for him to see but not enough that it hurts, and Moriarty is on top of him, grinning, his face twisted into pleasure and glee as he leans down and presses a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. His lips taste vile and Sherlock flinches back for the first time: in this he cannot lay quietly.

“Now I know what that little pet of yours see in you,” Moriarty breathes. “Makes me wonder what kind of a fuck he would be. In due time, perhaps." He sighs loudly and pats Sherlock's belly. "I’d love to stick around, Sherlock, but Daddy really must be going. Minions to order about and worlds to seize, you know. I’ll be seeing you.” Easily, gracefully, he stands up, seemingly not caring that he’s stark narked. He leaps down off of the table and swaggers over to the door. Without so much as a glance over his shoulder he walks out, leaving Sherlock alone.

Before he can even begin to assess the situation, John walks in.

“Sherlock!” he says, sounding strangely frantic.

“John?” Sherlock stares at him and wonders if what he’s seeing is really real, or if Moriarty has slipped him something without his notice. Difficult to do, but he’d rather that then seeing the look on John’s face when he takes in the situation. It’s almost worse than having half of Scotland Yard pile in behind him, including Lestrade and Donovan. Almost, but not quite, because the way Sergeant Donovan stops and wrinkles her nose, like he’s become something worthless, is enough to make his stomach tighten up.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says, “you mean we’ve been searching for him all this time and he was here having freak sex?”

“Sally,” Lestrade says.

“Well, it’s true. Look at him!” And she gestures to Sherlock like that sums up everything. Maybe it does. Sherlock watches her for only a second before his attention snaps back to John, who has moved, and the look on his face... it’s worse than Sherlock could have imagined, it makes his stomach sink straight through the floor, makes him want to curl up into a ball so that John can’t see any more evidence to make it obvious that he enjoyed it, wanted it.

“John...” he says hoarsely.

John’s face smoothes out and goes blank. “You look like you’re fine,” he says, every word carefully pronounced, and then he reaches out and snags a stray piece of rope near Sherlock’s right ear, inches from his hand, easily accessible had he noticed it. Sherlock watches in dumbfounded silence as John gives a little tug and the knots that held him so tightly unravel in seconds, freeing him.

“Figures,” Donovan mutters, shaking her head. “I always knew you were a freak but this is a step too far. I mean, sex with _Moriarty_? What is the _matter_ with you?”

“Sally!” Lestrade’s voice is sharper this time. He’s not looking at Sherlock. He’s looking at John. “That’s enough. I can see that we’re not needed in here, so go help the others search the building for any sign of Moriarty. I expect he’s long gone, though.” He finally glances at Sherlock and it’s a look of complete reproach, not quite disgust but close enough.

“I didn’t...” The words die a slow death on Sherlock’s tongue as both Lestrade and Donovan turn and leave the room. Because he did, didn’t he? They’re right. There’s no physical evidence to prove that he wanted what Moriarty did, that’s gone along with him, but that can’t erase the memory of it. He touches a shaking hand to the semen splattered on his chest and glances up just in time to catch the way that John’s composed expression crumbles. Instinctively he changes course, reaching out to John instead.

John pulls away. He physically _recoils_.

Sherlock freezes, suddenly very aware of the semen still coating his fingertips.

“John...”

“Don’t,” John says. “Just... don’t. Okay, Sherlock? I should’ve known that you...” He trails off and shakes his head, like finishing that sentence is going to hurt too much. “Look, just come back to the flat whenever you want.” He turns on his heel and walks out of the room, or rather limps out of the room, his leg bending under his weight just slightly. 

Here then, is Moriarty’s master plan, and as Sherlock puts his feet down on the cold floor and stands up he realizes that it is working perfectly.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes time for Sherlock to make his way back to the flat. The building has mostly cleared out by the time he finds his clothing and gets dressed, and he doesn’t know any of the officers well enough to risk asking them for a ride home. John is upstairs, he notes automatically as he walks in, and the rest of the flat is silent, but he still feels uneasy. He turns on all of the lights and checks the locks on the doors and windows, then systematically goes through every room to make sure that no one is lying in wait. He can’t check John’s room or Mrs Hudson’s flat, though, and the idea that Moriarty or one of his henchman could be hiding anywhere grates, and he resolves to take a look at first light.

He wants to take a shower. His body feels dirty, like there is a thick layer of sludge on his skin, and honestly he’d rather the sludge than the truth of it. First, though, he takes some new slides and scrapes off some of the dried semen, carefully preserving it just in case it will ever be of importance. Once again, he finds that his hand is shaking as he sets the slides down on the table, an annoyance that he hopes does not persist if he wants to be able to attend to his experiments properly. He takes his clothes off and showers in burning hot water that turns his skin a shade of pink and makes it sting. He scrubs all over, first with his own soap and then with John’s wash, just because it feels good to be surrounded in John.

The realisation that he doesn’t _deserve_ to use John’s wash nags at him, and in the end he uses his own for a third time.

He sits in his chair and curls his legs in close, watching the progress of the moon through the window. The last night he’d slept, before the business with the pips began, had been in John’s bed. They were progressing slowly and hadn’t really done much beyond groping on top of clothing, though John had stuck his hand down the back of Sherlock’s trousers for a good feel once. He’d had his head on John’s chest, listening to the steady thumping of John’s heart with John’s hand on his hair, and it had sent him off into a deep, peaceful sleep much more quickly than anything before. 

What would John do if Sherlock went upstairs now? Is he awake and pacing the room? Or has he fallen into an uneasy sleep, rife with nightmares? Or perhaps his sleep is easy and solid, deep and dreamless. That’s unlikely given his clear emotional upset, but then John has surprised Sherlock before and will no doubt continue to do in the future. Unless, of course, John leaves.

Sherlock pauses at that, troubled. Would John leave? Has this upset him to that point? Has he finally found the one thing that will make John Watson go? Suddenly he finds himself wondering if John is upstairs at all or if Sherlock is wrong and John’s already gone. He stands up without consciously directing his body to do so and mounts the stairs, mindful of the ones that creak beneath his foot. He crouches outside of John’s door, head cocked, listening, waiting.

The door opens.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Sherlock says without thinking and then frowns. It’s true but he’s not sure that was the right thing to say. Judging by the look on John’s face, it wasn’t.

“You wanted... Oh, so you care about me _now_?” John says bitterly, shifting his weight. “What’s the matter? Did Moriarty cut you off? Leave you high and dry after your little game was over with?” His voice is growing louder now. “Well I’m sorry, but that’s not my problem. God, I’ve been sitting up here wondering how I could be so bloody stupid as to think that you would ever be interested in me when you’ve got someone who matches you perfectly already. You and Moriarty, I was just joking before, but now I see how it works.”

No, Sherlock wants to tell him, _no_. But he can’t make his throat work and anyway, John keeps talking.

“I was actually worried, you know. I suppose that’s probably a foreign idea to you but us normal people, us _common masses_ , we do things like that. Worry. When Lestrade found me at the pool after the explosion I thought maybe you’d had a concussion and wandered off. I thought maybe Moriarty had kidnapped you. I was...” His chest is heaving. “Fucking hell, Sherlock, I was bloody frantic! We all were! I know you’re a reckless, irresponsible excuse for a human being but you could’ve at least told me that you were planning on having it off with the man who just strapped me into a semtex vest not six hours ago! Has this whole thing just been a ridiculously long bout of foreplay for the two of you?”

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock is not a man who apologizes often and it shows. The words are weak, pathetic, and only seem to fuel John’s ire.

“Don’t give me that, Sherlock. I could understand if it was anyone else. I mean, I’m a boring person and I thought you’d lose interest in me eventually. But _Moriarty_?” And now, there is the disgust in his voice, the sheer revulsion, like he can’t even bear to look at Sherlock for too long, much less stand here and speak to him. “The man finds it fun to _kill people_ , Sherlock. I know you don't believe in heroes and that this whole mess has been a game for you, but I... I used to think that maybe you weren’t as bad as all that, that maybe there was hope for you. Now I know I was wrong.”

Sherlock stares at him. There is a curious sensation in his chest, like someone has piled something extraordinarily heavy on his ribs and they’re about to give away under the pressure. He tries to reach out for John once more but just like before John recoils, nearly stumbling he jerks away so fast, and then he slams the door in Sherlock’s face. He keeps standing there for a few seconds, minutes, maybe even an hour, until the sounds on the other side of that door fade away into silence. 

He goes back downstairs and sits in his chair, alone, for the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

In spite of the closed door, John can still sense that Sherlock is standing out there. At first he is too angry, too frustrated, to hurt, to care, and he paces the room restlessly, ignoring the occasional twinge from his thigh that adds a bad limp back into his step. But as the minutes tick by a looming sense of exhaustion slowly begins to take over and finally he sinks down onto the edge of the bed and stares at the clock, the only sound in the room his unsteady breathing. He clenches his hands into fists and waits because he knows, after long enough, Sherlock will get bored. He always does.

Sure enough, it’s only another seven minutes before he hears Sherlock shuffling back down the stairs. He’s making no effort to conceal the sounds of his footsteps so he’s probably annoyed, angry possibly, with John’s show of ‘useless sentiment’. Well, bollocks for him. It’s a relief to know that he’s got at least a little space now. He’d like to get up and move around some more, do something with the frenetic energy pulsing through him, but sitting has made the ache in his leg even more noticeable. Psychosomatic or not, John has faced enough pain for the night. He lies down on the bed without even bothering to get dressed and stares up at the ceiling, which he can only just barely make out through the darkness, and waits for the day to make some sort of sense.

Predictably, when it comes to a life with Sherlock Holmes, it does not. He shuts his eyes and breathes out a shaky sigh, tries to think of when it all went wrong.

He’d woken up that morning already feeling on edge. This whole thing with the pips had been something of an eye opener. He had been aware of Sherlock’s complete disregard for human life already, of course he was, but it was something altogether different to have it shoved so blatantly in his face, to have first hand experience of his flatmate’s thirst for _the game_. And even though he had tried not to, it had made him wonder what Sherlock might do if _John_ was the one who ended up in one of those bloody vests. Would it even matter that the victim was John? Or would Sherlock be the same great detective as always, far more interested in the fucking game than in saving a life, even the life of someone who had shared a bed with him?

Before today, John would’ve said it was the former and let it go, even though it would have continued nagging at him incessantly. But now… he squeezes his eyes shut and can’t forget that moment after the gun went off, when the explosion - smaller than he’d been expecting but still enough to decimate a good portion of the building - went off and Sherlock disappeared in flames and brightness and smoke. The next thing he knew, Lestrade had been shaking him awake and asking frantic questions and Sherlock, god Sherlock, had been missing, and John’s imagination had gone wild. There was nothing that Moriarty wouldn’t do. Nothing.

They’d all known that, Lestrade and John and even Donovan, and it had been reflected in their search. John remembers Lestrade, looking old and worn, and Donovan, with her eyes so tired, and the adrenaline surging and fading as they looked and failed and resorted to asking Mycroft for answers and there was nothing, just _nothing_ , and swears out loud.

“And the whole Jesus time the fucking bastard was with him _willingly_!” John hisses, jamming his hands into his eyes. He knows he’ll never forget walking into that room and seeing Sherlock splayed out on that bed like a sacrifice: it’s been carved into his brain. Worse yet, now he can’t stop picturing it, how Sherlock must have looked: the way he gets that rosy tinge across his cheeks when he’s aroused, how his eyes go a deep, heavy grey. John’s never seen him orgasm, he’d been looking forward to it with an anticipation rivalled only a child on Christmas Eve, and the idea that Moriarty has seen all that is as unbearable as it is infuriating.

Because John’s not a stupid man, no matter what Sherlock Holmes says. From the day that Sherlock had first made it clear that he was interested, a day that was so perfectly ordinary it’s almost laughable to remember, John has worried that Sherlock might get bored with him. It’s just the way he is. Sherlock plays with interesting things for a while and then he gets bored and throws them in the rubbish bin (or waits for John to do it). Every day that he’d got up and Sherlock still wanted him was a surprise. They’d never discussed being monogamous, hadn’t talked about anything really, but somehow he’d thought…

And, okay, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been bloody _Moriarty_ , the man who just tried to _kill John_. The memory of those dark eyes smirking at him as he was strapped into the vest is far too fresh for it not to sting. Even though he knows it’s not about lust or affection or anything vaguely human, it’s just… It’s hard, nearly impossible, to come to terms with the idea that the game means so much to Sherlock that he would go and do… _that_ with Moriarty so soon after the fact.

But he has to, because if he doesn’t John will lose Sherlock for good and out of everything he has been asked to bear thus far in his life that is one thing he’s pretty sure he can’t do.

He’ll do it. He’ll make up with Sherlock eventually and they’ll be friends again. They’ll go to crime scenes and Sherlock will be brilliant and when he sneaks off John will very pointedly not wonder where he’s gone, and maybe someday when Moriarty is gone and the thrill of the game has worn off he’ll be able to ask Sherlock what the fuck he was thinking without wanting to punch the man in the face. He’ll do it because he has to, because in spite of all of the massive amounts of disappointment and grief and fear he can’t imagine a life without that bloody brilliant detective in it.


	5. Chapter 5

Lestrade is the first one up the stairs the next morning, bright and early, as expected. He looks at Sherlock, who is still sitting in his chair, and then looks away, seems not to know what to do with his hands, and finally takes out his little notepad and a pen. “I’ve come to take your statement,” he says. “Want to tell me exactly what happened?”

“When?” Sherlock says, not bothering to glance up at him. His hands are folded in front of his chin and he’s staring intently at the far side of the room, where John’s mobile phone is sitting on the table. It’s been there all night. It’s how he knows John hasn’t slipped out of the flat without his notice while he was lost in thought.

“When – what do you mean, when? The pool, Sherlock!” Lestrade heaves a put upon sigh. “I know you know the whole story behind the pips.”

“Oh, yes. Moriarty was trying to challenge me. He used John as the fifth pip.” The memory of watching John step out of the room at the pool, that brief moment when he thought John might be Moriarty, sticks with him like a bad taste in his mouth. He can’t get rid of it (or anything else) even though he’s tried repeatedly. “He was toying with us. I was able to get John free of the vest, but Moriarty returned and said he couldn’t allow us to get away. I shot the bomb and it exploded.”

“You shot the bomb with what?”

“What?” Sherlock looks at him blankly.

“The gun, Sherlock. If you shot the bomb you had to have one.”

“We… found it at the site,” he says evasively, and he’s pretty sure it’s a lie that Lestrade sees straight through but he thinks, hopes, that the detective inspector will be willing to look past the obvious. “I’m not sure what happened to it after the blast. I imagine it was lost in the wreckage or maybe Moriarty took it back, I don’t know.” His tone makes it very clear that he also doesn’t care.

“And then?” says Lestrade.

Sherlock just keeps looking at him.

“You had sex with the bastard, Sherlock!” And here, now they’ve reached the real reason why Lestrade has come over. The rings beneath his eyes tell of a long night spent in his office: judging by his wrinkled clothing, trying to reconcile what he’s learned with the image he has built up over the years. It doesn’t seem to be going well. “You had sex with someone who has willingly killed over a dozen people. Someone who tried to kill John. I know you don’t care about anyone besides yourself but I thought for sure that _John_ -” He cuts himself off abruptly and swallows with visible effort, concludes in a forcibly quieter voice, “I thought John would be different.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Sherlock says. His skin feels prickly and he wishes Lestrade would leave so he could take another shower, even though he hasn’t done anything in the past twelve hours to warrant one. 

“Just... just tell me that there’s something I don’t understand about the situation. I don’t want to believe that you would do this with someone like that.” Lestrade closes the distance between them and reaches out like he’s going to seize Sherlock by the shoulders and shake him a little, maybe in an effort to bring some sense into the situation. Sherlock flinches away, his back striking the chair so hard it rocks dangerously, and Lestrade stops, his hands closing into useless fists.

“You should know by now, Detective Inspector, that I am not a good man.” His throat hurts with the effort of speaking in a calm, rational voice. He wants to throw something suddenly, and he only controls the urge by sitting on his hands. He’s not good enough for John and it was useless to ever entertain the notion that he could be. He wants to explain that to Lestrade in great detail, only he thinks he doesn’t have to because Lestrade’s face has shuttered and gone blank in the same way that John’s was last night and it makes his belly tighten and knot up.

“No, I guess not,” Lestrade says very softly, and then he looks away again. “I’ll have to get John’s statement, too. Is he awake?”

“I don’t know.” He’s pretty sure he has never willingly uttered those words in Lestrade’s presence before, but Lestrade just nods distractedly and says something about getting into contact with John later on. 

He starts to leave and then he stops. He doesn’t turn around but he says, “I did know better. I _should_ have known better. I won’t make that mistake a second time.” And he takes off down the stairs like he can’t bear to be in the same room with Sherlock for a single second longer, and a minute later there’s Mrs Hudson’s voice asking after him and Lestrade brushing her off and then the sound of the door slamming echoes back up the stairs.

“Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson is coming up now, her footsteps light. “Is everything all right? Only your detective inspector looks rather upset.”

Sherlock stands up and shuffles into his bedroom. He shuts the door just as Mrs Hudson reaches the room. She stands there for a few minutes, probably weighing the intelligence of the idea of knocking on his door, before she mounts the stairs to John’s room. The low murmur of voices above would normally fuel Sherlock’s curiosity and he’d try to listen or at least deduce their conversation, but tonight he doesn’t feel like knowing what they’re discussing, suspects he already knows. Him. They’re talking about him and how disgusting he is, wondering what kind of _freak_ would respond to a man like Moriarty, would want to have sex with him.

“Me,” he mumbles to himself, because there is no one else to listen, and he sits down on his bed for the first time in weeks. The sheets are cold against his back and his eyes are burning when he lays back and looks up at the ceiling. He shuts his eyes but it doesn’t do any good. Even in his room with the door locked and John on the floor above, the shadows in his room look far too much like Jim Moriarty for sleep to be coming any time soon.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s a full three days before he sees John again, and that’s partially (entirely) his fault because he’s spent most of that time holed up in his room, emerging only when he absolutely has to and then only for the loo. John, on the other hand, comes and goes with regularity, leaving for his shifts at the surgery and one date with Sarah. Sherlock discovers that as long as John is in the flat and he has every light in his bedroom on at full blast and the door and window are locked, he can sleep. So he spends most of those three days with his eyes shut, mind drifting, fully conscious only during those hours that he knows John is not in the flat and he needs to be on guard.

On the morning of the fourth day, John knocks at his door.

“Sherlock,” he says, “Sherlock, come out here. We need to talk.”

He considers ignoring the summons, finding a certain amount of irony in the fact that John is the one who closed the door in his face but who is now asking Sherlock to come out, and finally gets up, because this is John and he will do what he can to make things even a little bit fine between them. He wraps a sheet around his body and shuffles over to the door, opening it slowly. John is no longer there; he’s retreated back into the kitchen, perhaps already regretting that he bothered to knock in the first place. Nevertheless Sherlock ventures out, following the heady fragrance of tea.

“Sit,” John says. He’s at the counter preparing said tea, two mugs, and there’s a plate of sandwiches already on the table. “I’m tired of your sulking, alright?” Though he’s clearly trying to sound angry he actually comes across as more exhausted than anything, and Sherlock sits. “I don’t know how you expected me to react to the situation. I just... what goes on in your head is beyond me. You surely couldn’t have thought I wouldn’t be angry?” He regards Sherlock like he’s a fine new specimen to be examined, and his mouth presses into a thin line when Sherlock doesn’t respond. “Right, well, I’ve put a lot of thought into the matter and I’ve got some things I’d like to say. So shut up and drink this.”

The steaming cup of tea is shoved into Sherlock’s hands almost violently and he barely manages to control the resulting flinch. John doesn’t notice, having turned away to grab his own cup, and Sherlock has regained his composure by the time John sits down across from him. He sips at the tea and discovers that it is full of milk and sugar, so sweet that his teeth begin to ache. It’s the way he always insists on having it made during a case, when John unsuccessfully tries to sneak him sustenance that will keep him from collapsing, a compromise that they have agreed upon without ever speaking about it. Sherlock keeps sipping, disregarding the sandwiches, and waits for John to speak. And after a moment of contemplation, John does.

“I’m not going to say that I’m not hurt. Frankly I will never understand your obsession with Moriarty, and I do not want to know how it got this far. Whatever you do with him is... is your own business.” His hand, when he picks up his mug, is remarkably steady. “And I realize that the two of us never really discussed anything. We weren’t exclusive. I just assumed... well. That was my mistake. Communication has never been my strong point. I should have clarified what I was looking for with you before anything happened.”

Sherlock says nothing. He could point out that John didn’t need to explain because Sherlock knew what he wanted, but he doesn’t.

“I still want us to be friends if that’s at all possible. I like living here and working with you, coming along on cases. If that’s not something you’re interested in, I understand.” He waits, sipping from his tea, and Sherlock realizes that it is his turn to speak. Somehow he didn’t see this coming, doesn’t know what to say, and he fumbles with his cup and splashes some tea onto the table. John sighs and gets up to get a cloth, and Sherlock digs his nails into his hands so hard it hurts. 

“Don’t leave,” he manages to say past the hundreds of things that are lining up, trying to surge out without his permission. Things like _I’m sorry John_ and _I don’t know what’s wrong with me_ and _I want you, not Moriarty_ and _I didn’t know I wanted that with him_. Useless things that will not serve the situation, will in fact only make it that much worse, and he wants John to stay more than anything else. He hates it when John has to leave for the surgery, can’t imagine being here without John and knowing that John is not coming back.

“I just said I’m not.” John wipes at the spill until the tea is gone. Something in his face has relaxed a little; he seems more at ease now that he knows he still has a place at 221b. “As long as you promise that whatever goes on between you and Moriarty is to be kept to yourself. I don’t want to know anything, got it?”

Sherlock nods and drinks the rest of his tea. John smiles at him, and it’s not a good smile but it’s still a smile, and makes him another cup. As a thank you, Sherlock eats a quarter of a sandwich before his stomach feels like he’ll vomit if he eats anymore. Doctor or not he doesn’t think John will want to deal with that, so he stops and drinks the second of tea instead. Apparently satisfied that their talk is over, John nods at him and takes the remains of his cup of tea into the living room, where he sits down and starts watching the telly, one of those crap shows Sherlock used to like to mock so much.

His phone beeps and reflexively, he checks it. He’s hoping for a case that will help to smooth things over between him and John, restore the easy, sacred friendship that they used to live by even if nothing else comes of what they were beginning to build. But when he sees the screen, his whole body goes very quiet and very still. Bile rises in his throat. He’s half-tempted to summon John, but has John not just said he does not want to know anything? Sherlock flails inwardly, uncertain, and finally stands up and throws up quietly in the sink, the sound covered by the telly and John’s laughter.

_Daddy’s still watching, sweetheart, and if you misbehave I might have to come back for round two._


	7. Chapter 7

On one of those days while John is at the surgery Mycroft comes around, not too long after he and John have come to their tentative understanding that they will be friends and no more (and even the “friends” part of that is still under question). Sherlock has graduated to feeling comfortable enough to lie on the couch even when John isn’t in the flat, though he still likes to keep the door and windows locked. John had looked at him oddly the first time he came home and had to knock on the door until Mrs Hudson came upstairs and let him in because Sherlock wouldn’t, but beyond that he hasn’t questioned the departure from the normal, seems to think Sherlock was just being lazy and yes, that’s fine.

He always lies down facing the room, now. 

So he’s there, the quiet sound of the telly his only company, when he hears the door open downstairs. There are only a few people who don’t bother to knock, and Mycroft and Lestrade are at the top of the list when Mrs Hudson is already home. His body goes tense and he stops breathing, listening intently. The footsteps on the stairs are slow, methodical, heavy. Not Lestrade, then, he always takes the stairs two at a time. Mycroft. He’d like to roll over and put his back to the room in a blatant show of how he feels about his brother being here but he doesn’t dare, just in case, even though he can also hear a secondary, lighter thud that means Mycroft’s got his umbrella along. It's definitely him - but.

Mycroft pauses outside the locked door. He has keys, of course, and he puts them to good use, opening the door to reveal a satisfied half-smile that makes Sherlock feel roll his eyes. His brother comes into the room and sits down in John’s chair as casually as though the chair belongs to him, and Sherlock glances at him briefly before looking back at the door, which is now open to allow anyone entrance. He’s tempted to get up and close it, but that means a concession he’s not willing to make, proof he’s bothered by Mycroft’s presence, and there’s no use in telling Mycroft to close it because now that he’s settled in Mycroft won’t move until he’s good and ready.

“What do you want?” he says at last. Usually he likes to wait for Mycroft to make the first move but in this case he just wants to be alone until John comes home.

“I heard about your adventure,” Mycroft says, and of course he has, Mycroft is like the bloody human version of CCTV, knowing everything. He taps his fingers on top of his umbrella like he’s contemplating what to say next. His head is cocked slightly and Sherlock narrows his eyes, attention skittering back to him for just a few seconds, and he can’t stop the laugh that catches in his throat.

“Don’t tell me you’re here because you’re _worried_ ,” he says derisively. “Or rather, pretending to be worried. It’s not a good look for you, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” He exhales forcibly, the Mycroftian version of an annoyed huff, and taps his umbrella against the floor, fingers curled lazily around the handle. 

“Oh, don’t even bother. I have nothing to tell you in regards to Moriarty.” And that is the honest truth, because if Sherlock did know anything that would help Mycroft’s men to catch Moriarty he would tell him. He would _beg_ his big brother to lock Moriarty up, and he hasn’t done that since he was ten years old and he begged Mycroft not to go to uni. It was the first time he realized that Mycroft couldn’t fix everything. That he can’t fix this. Sherlock closes his eyes.

“No, you wouldn’t,” comes the soft reply and that’s not disgust, it’s disappointment, and it causes a whole new level of knots because the last time Mycroft spoke to him in that way he was strung out on drugs.

“Just go away,” Sherlock whispers, opening his eyes when Mycroft shifts, the rustle of clothing impossible to ignore because it reminds him that he is not safely alone in the room. He looks back at the door, just to check, and adds, “If you’re here to warn me off, don’t bother. The game that we were playing is over.” And he’s lost, he doesn’t say, but Mycroft catches the unspoken words and looks at him sharply. 

“Are you alright?” he asks and this is actually a genuine question, an honesty that rarely exists between them, and for one split second Sherlock really wishes he could curl up on his big brother’s lap and tell him the whole story and just let Mycroft fix everything. He doesn’t, though, because he knows how it will end and he couldn’t bear seeing Mycroft’s face twisted in disgust and horror, just the way Lestrade and John were, all of them appalled that he’d had sex with Moriarty and enjoyed every minute of it. He can bear many things from Mycroft but he could not bear that, and so he scoffs, turning his head into the side of the couch but not so far that he can’t see the door.

“I am fine, Mycroft,” he says, every word clipped.

Mycroft sighs this time. “Very well. I came here to see if... well, it doesn’t matter, not when I see you are going to be a child about this.” He stands up, umbrella swinging lightly from his hand. “I will find Jim Moriarty, Sherlock.” _So enjoy him while you can_ goes unsaid and Sherlock conceals his shudder. “In the meantime, I have cleared things up with the Met so that D.I. Lestrade will be able to start contacting you for your help again. Don’t mess this up.” 

Cases. The thought of having something concrete and difficult and distracting to sink his teeth into is nearly enough to bring a _thank you_ to his lips, one that this time he might even mean, but Mycroft is already shuffling out of the room, clearly thinking that their encounter is over, and there doesn’t seem to be much sense in calling him back. Sherlock waits until he hears Mycroft talking to Mrs Hudson in low tones, and then the door opens and closes downstairs, followed by the one to Mrs Hudson’s flat. Then he gets up and closes the door and locks it. Just in case.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning finds Sherlock standing at the window with his violin in hand, though he isn’t playing anything, doesn’t even have his bow. He just likes holding his violin. He’s watching the people below on the pavement when his phone beeps to alert him to an incoming text message. He grabs for it automatically and looks at the screen, his heart pounding faster as he reads the text from Lestrade. Short and to the point, advising him that there is a crime scene and he’s cleared to come if he chooses. There’s a distinct lack of the details that Lestrade normally adds to entice Sherlock into agreeing to come, but this time he doesn’t care. 

“John!” he calls out, setting his violin down gently in the case. John is upstairs and he’d mentioned something about a nap, which likely means he’s masturbating. There was a time when Sherlock would’ve gone up the stairs anyway, hell he probably would’ve been up there with John already, but now he stops at the bottom and loudly says, “John! There’s a case. I’m leaving in five minutes if you want to come” and hopes that John won’t be able to tell how much he wants John along.

He gets dressed for the first time in days, pulling on clothing that now feels almost foreign against his skin, tugging it into place with quick jerks. John is waiting for him by the time he gets back outside. He takes one look at Sherlock and laughs a little. “Didn’t you look in the mirror while you were getting dressed? Your hair is an absolute mess.” His hand twitches at his side, like he might reach up and smooth down the wayward curls, but he aborts the movement by turning to fetch his coat.

“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock says, running his own hand through his hair. It feels like a paltry replacement for the warmth of John’s touch. “Are you ready?”

“Yup. Even got the gun.” John’s face crinkles into a grin. He’d received a package two days after the fiasco at the pool containing a brand new gun that was identical to his old one in every way except that it wasn’t legally registered to John Watson, and as such couldn’t be traced back to him if someone else were to find it. 

“Good.” He grabs his own coat and slips it on, then stands back to let John go first. John shoots him a puzzled look that Sherlock pretends not to notice as he follows John down the stairs. He slips his hands into his pockets because they’re shaking again, the bloody things, and lets John open up the front door. His heart begins to race for an entirely different reason as he steps outside, and he can’t help sweeping his eyes over the neighbourhood. The flood of information is too much, to overwhelming, to be useful in any way, and all he can think about it is that Moriarty could be anywhere and he would never know.

“Sherlock?” John looks curious, chewing on his lower lip, bordering on concerned. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says shortly, the lie coming to his lips easily, and he can tell as he moves to the edge of the pavement that it hasn’t fooled John. One hand flung into the air stops a cab on the first try and good for it, the shaking is actually perceptible now and it’s humiliating, thank god John isn’t paying that much attention. Sherlock gets in first and John climbs in after him. The cab is dark and smells like cigarettes, like _smoke_ , and for a split second his throat closes and he remembers being back in that room with Moriarty close by. 

“Oi, where you two going?” the cabbie demands when neither of them offers directions.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” 

“What? What – oh, right.” His recitation of the address is done in a voice just this side of unsteady and now John is really staring at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you okay?” he says more slowly, consciously focusing on Sherlock this time. Before Sherlock can respond he reaches out and grips Sherlock’s wrist, his fingers searching for Sherlock’s pulse. The touch is instantly grounding, warm and steady, and Sherlock exhales shakily as John leans over to peer into his face. “You haven’t taken anything, have you?”

“No,” Sherlock says, and the honesty must be convincing because John nods and lets go, scrubs his hand against the legs of his jeans before letting it rest in his lap, and Sherlock watches that hand for a long time before he looks out the window with a heaviness in his throat that he can’t find a suitable explanation for. The knowledge that John can’t even touch him without having to clean his hand off afterwards feels like it is dragging him to the ground, and in that moment all he wants is for the cab to turn right back around and take him home.

He doesn’t, though, because his phone beeps again and it’s Lestrade, and he’s got pictures of the crime scene this time. He glances briefly through them and then locks his phone. John looks at him incredulously. “That’s it? Normally you spend the whole ride pouring over what Lestrade sends you.”

“The quality isn’t very good,” he lies again. Actually they’re just as good as Lestrade’s photos ever are. But he’s got a headache and the bright light of the phone is making his eyes hurt, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the victim has been tied up and left to die of blood loss, it really doesn’t. He adds with a hint of his usual scorn, “Besides, you know the pictures are never as good as the real thing, John, honestly. We’re nearly there and I’ll be able to take a proper look.”

“Right,” John says doubtfully, glancing out the window. “Well, I hope you’re ready. Here comes Lestrade and he does not look too impressed. Must be a high profile case.”

Or maybe, Sherlock thinks as the cab stops and he stares at the door so that he doesn’t have to watch Lestrade’s face, it’s the fact that Lestrade has to work with _him_.


	9. Chapter 9

The case, as it turns out, is not overly complicated. At first Sherlock's mind feels a bit like a rusty piece of machinery, but as he listens to John and Lestrade discuss the case in low tones he can feel things starting to click into gear. And by the time he has finished examining the body he knows how it was done, why, and by whom. The victim is someone who was actively participating in a BDSM-style scene that went wrong and the other participant panicked and tried to make it look like an accident. Not the same at all. The only thing of interest that remains is in tracking down the other man. He gives the barest amount of details to Lestrade and sweeps off to fetch another cab, John tagging along behind.

"So where are we off to, then?" he asks, falling into step beside Sherlock easily. Apparently he's forgotten the earlier oddness and tension that lingered between them because his eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed. He looks like himself for the first time in days. John, Sherlock realizes, needs this as much or more than he does.

"You heard the address," Sherlock says, looking out the window. If he cocks his head just right he can see John in the reflection, so he can watch without having to worry about his expression being seen or interpreted wrongly (or worse, rightly). "The man is a solicitor, I believe, works at a high profile firm. He's worried about his reputation, no doubt, and what will happen if it gets out that he was an active and willing participant. Even though the evidence says that it was an accident, I'm sure Lestrade's got plenty of questions for him and few people would look kindly on a solicitor being arrested, much less what he’s being arrested for."

"And you couldn't have just told Lestrade his name?" John looks far too eager and amused for the faint note of scolding in his voice to ring true. 

"I don't know his name, John. I only know where he works. That's what we're going to find out."

The cab pulls up in front of Doyle & Sons and they both pop out, Sherlock thrusting a handful of notes in the cabbie's direction before he strides off towards the doors. The inside of the firm is bustling, to be expected considering the time of the day, and he lets his eyes take everything in for half a minute, trying to absorb all of the details at a rate that is not so overwhelming. He’s slow - too slow - because one of the men standing around by the front desks takes one look in their direction and then makes a run for it straight out the front doors. Automatically Sherlock sprints after him, ignoring John’s startled shout.

The bloke is fast and he knows the area well, immediately turning down a long alley and vaulting the chain link fence. Sherlock follows, using his long legs to propel himself up and over and landing easily on the other side. He hears John swearing behind him and knows that John always has a hard time with obstacles like that but he can't stop; his blood is pumping and adrenaline is surging through his veins and it feels too damn good, like that first lovely jolt when he takes a hit of cocaine. He runs down the alley and emerges onto the main street, spotting the other man on the opposite side running north along the pavement, except it's so busy that he's not having much luck moving quickly.

Instead of darting out in front of the cars, Sherlock keeps pace with him on the opposite side, watching as the man looks around frantically, fails to notice him (as always, seeing but not observing), and gradually starts to relax. That's when Sherlock makes his move, spring across at a light and slamming him up against the bricks of the nearest store. The sputters of shock coming out of the man are delightful as Sherlock fists his hands in the collar and holds on tight, eyeing him distastefully. He says, "You're not even a solicitor, are you? You're a secretary hoping to climb the ladder someday. There's always something, I suppose."

"You... you're Sherlock Holmes," the man says, hands tugging ineffectually at Sherlock's fingers. His breath is coming short from the tight grip on his shirt, but he still manages a smirk. "I knew you'd be coming for me. He told me that you would, said he'd help me if I delivered a message to you."

Something in Sherlock goes cold, but he refuses to let it show. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"I'm still watching," the man says, obviously quoting someone, "and maybe next time I've got you tied where I want you, I'll fuck you blind and burn your heart out for real." He's grinning now, enjoying the expression on Sherlock's face, and this time when he brings his hands up and gives a quick jerk Sherlock lets him go. He doesn't mean to, it just happens, and the man is off like a shot, running headlong down the street. He clearly thinks he's got away, and he'd have managed it too if it weren't for John Watson. Dear John, who comes sprinting up the pavement from the opposite direction and tackles the man to the ground, heedless of the startled people around them.

"Don't move," John orders, gripping one of the man’s arms and roughly thrusting it up against his shoulder blades. "The police are on their way." He looks up at Sherlock, flushed and victorious, ignoring the way the man starts squeaking about injustice and how John isn't allowed to do this. "Good job, though I've told you before you shouldn't go after people alone, Sherlock. He could've attacked you." He pauses suddenly, noting that Sherlock is not sharing his merriment. "What's wrong? Did he attack you?" And his hold on the man's arm becomes just a bit firmer.

"No," Sherlock says in a slight daze, thrusting his hands into his pockets to hide the tremor. "No, I'm fine, John." And even though John doesn't look convinced, he has nothing more to offer. Moriarty's threat - does it refer to John again or the beating organ in his chest or both? Impossible to know and he's afraid to find out.


	10. Chapter 10

To say that Sherlock has been acting strangely over the past week is a gross understatement, one that makes John Watson feel like he has missed something vital. As he watches the barrister being yanked to his feet and roughly cuffed by Sergeant Donovan and an unfamiliar officer, he moves back a couple of steps to stand next to Sherlock. He’s expecting to see the flush of the hunt on his flatmate’s face, to be able to share in that private moment of adrenaline and victory that’s just for the two of them, but. The fact that it is not there makes John feel oddly cold and bereft. Instead, Sherlock looks haunted, skin pale and eyes enormous like a kitten that's just been spooked.

“Sherlock?” John says carefully, glancing back at the barrister. For the first time he notices that, in spite of the fact that he has been caught, the man is smirking and looking at Sherlock with an expression that makes John really want to punch him. There is something going on here that he is unaware of. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, nor will it be the last. He gives a brief sigh and folds his arms. “Alright, Sherlock, let’s hear it. What did he say to you?”

“What?” Sherlock startles like he wasn’t even aware that John was beside him. Instantly John’s level of worry rackets up several notches.

“What did he say to you?” he repeats.

“What makes you think he _said_ anything?” There is a hint of a sneer to Sherlock’s voice. 

Because you’re acting like a skittish colt, John does not say. Instead he says, “I watched you pin him to the wall. He didn’t do anything to you. But you’re acting… Well, I can tell that something isn’t right. The logical conclusion is that he said something that’s upset you. What was it?” John’s not really sure he wants to know what can rattle Sherlock Holmes so severely, but as the man’s closest (only?) friend he feels it is his duty to find out. 

Sherlock blinks and looks at him and, perhaps sensing that John isn’t going to let this go, says, “You won’t want to know.”

John takes a deep breath and licks lips, makes his decision. “Yes I do.”

“You _told me_ you don’t want to know!” Sherlock says, and there’s an odd note in his voice: a little hitch that makes John pause before responding and look at him more closely. Obviously this is about Moriarty, but Sherlock does not look or sound happy. In fact, if John didn’t know better he would say that Sherlock looks like he is two seconds away from crying. And even though now John really, truly does _not_ want to know, he can’t help the fact that his protective instincts are all clicking in faster than he can handle. He shifts a bit closer and drops his voice so that no one else will be able to hear.

“If there is something upsetting you, Sherlock, then yes, I do want to know. You’re still my friend and that hasn’t changed.” He keeps his gaze steady, locked onto Sherlock’s eyes, forcing the man to face him.

“John…” Sherlock actually bites his lip, uncertain, and John really wants to hug him right now, but he can’t because that’s a right he no longer has. “What he said to me…” He trails off and then, abruptly, takes a different track altogether. “At the pool, when you woke up and I was gone, I wasn’t… I didn’t want to - ”

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice cuts across their conversation neatly, silencing Sherlock, who turns so pale that John automatically leans towards him just in case he passes out. Sherlock flinches away from him, though, and John freezes and stares at him incredulously because he’s never seen Sherlock do _that_ before. But there is something intrinsically familiar about the instinctive reaction that makes a very bad feeling take hold in the pit of his belly. For a moment, he curses the existence of the entire NSY because he can literally _see_ Sherlock shutting down.

Sure enough, in the few seconds it takes for Lestrade to reach them Sherlock recovers beautifully. His face is set in a cold mask. “What?” 

“How many times have I told you, you can’t just keep running off like that?” Lestrade scolds, but in spite of that he’s not able to hide the satisfaction in his face when he glances over at the barrister, now being loaded into one of the waiting cars. “I’ll need your statement, then.”

Another minute flinch, this one noticeable only because John’s watching for it, and then Sherlock says, “I’m sure it’s obvious even to someone with your lack of talents, Detective Inspector” in a positively frigid voice. Lestrade stops in astonishment and Sherlock takes the opportunity to escape, disappearing down the nearest alley in a swirl of black coat and bloody long legs. 

Lestrade looks flummoxed. “What’s with him?”

“I don’t know,” John says honestly, troubled. “He’s been acting a little bit odd ever since the… well, you know.”

A slight grimace covers Lestrade’s face and he sighs, shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I know. Do you… has he seen him again, John?”

“I’m not sure,” John admits. “I told him I didn’t want to know about what goes on between them, and I’m not in the flat with him all the time, work at the surgery and all that. But…” He looks after Sherlock. Now that he really thinks about it, Sherlock doesn’t leave the flat anymore unless John is with him. In fact, he’s pretty sure that this has been Sherlock’s first venture outside since the pool. And there is no question of whether Moriarty has ever been to Baker Street. “I don’t think so.”

“Good. That’s something, at least,” Lestrade says, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Try and bring him down to the Yard tomorrow, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.” John waves him off and starts walking towards the alley where Sherlock disappeared, a suspicion having formed that he wants to test. He’s not sure whether to be surprised or not when he finds Sherlock loitering in the alley, obviously working hard to look like he’s not waiting for John even though he clearly is. John wants to pick up on their conversation, but he knows the moment is lost and it’s immensely frustrating, especially when he notices that Sherlock is perfectly positioned so that he could watch John and Lestrade the whole time and was only a single step away from letting them both see him. There is something very not good going on.

The question is what?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have got two chapter updates for this; if you did, that was my error. There is only one new chapter, Chapter 11.

Sherlock hasn’t played his violin since the pool and he’s not about to start now. The music, soothing though it may be, is loud enough to keep him from being able to hear if anyone is trying to enter the flat. And although he can lean against the front window and monitor the door, there are other ways to get in, the windows and Mrs Hudson’s flat, and the risk does not seem worth it. So even though his mind is spinning uselessly three days after their easily solved case with Lestrade, he does not react when John picks up the beloved instrument and brings it over to him.

“I want to hear you play,” John says.

He’s lying on the sofa with his back to the room, eyes shut, not feigning sleep, just trying not to dissect Moriarty’s words any more than he already has. The violin would be a welcome distraction, something else for him to focus on. But John usually doesn’t care for it when Sherlock plays the violin: he complains about the “god awful screeching, Jesus Sherlock, can’t you play music for once?”, particularly when it’s past midnight because John thinks sleep is important and he gets cranky if he doesn’t get at least seven hours a night when there’s no adrenaline to keep him going. So the fact that he is willingly bringing Sherlock the instrument is like hanging a sign around his neck that says something is wrong.

Opening one eye, he cranes his head so that he can look up at John. Sarah hasn’t called him in since the case, so John is dressed casually in a jumper and jeans. His hair is a little mussed, usually an indication he’s been running his hands through it, and, though they’ve been at home, there are circles under his eyes so he hasn’t been sleeping. Sherlock hasn’t heard him screaming from nightmares, though, so something else has been keeping him up. He’s smiling at Sherlock now but it’s not the way he usually smiles, this is a careful smile, a cautious smile: the smile he uses with patients he feels might be difficult. Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly in response.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You can actually play the violin when you feel like it. I know, I’ve heard you, and I want to hear you play since neither of us are doing anything. There’s nothing on the telly and I’m guessing that since Lestrade hasn’t called with anything new, it’s going to be only a matter of time before you start whining about how you’re bored. So…” He holds up the violin again.

“I don’t feel like it,” Sherlock says simply. He’s not sure what John is trying to get at, and this seems like the easiest excuse to offer. He closes his eyes again and pointedly turns his head back to face the couch.

John takes a deep breath. “Sherlock, when we were at the crime scene before you started to say something to me. You were upset.” He hesitates briefly. “What were you going to say?”

Ah, so that’s what this is about. Not surprising, given his uncustomary reaction to the end of a case, and honestly what little time he has not been thinking about Moriarty over the past three days has been spent admonishing himself for being so emotional. Now John thinks that there is something he has not been told, and he has slipped into what Sherlock calls “concerned doctor mode”, which is basically still John only a lot more stubborn and a lot less willing to bend or be distracted. Perhaps, in light of the fact that John is here in the flat with him, playing the violin would be alright. He has missed it, even if he’s only willing to admit that to himself.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and stretches languidly and deliberately before taking the violin and bow in hand. Experimentally he touches the bow to the strings and lightly draws it across. The resulting sprinkling of music sends a shiver up his spine and it’s not quite right, needs to be tuned a little, but it still feels like eating for the first time after a long case. He sets the bow aside and his fingers take over, years of practice guiding his hand. John backs away and takes a seat in his chair, watching Sherlock closely. There is a faint frown on his face; in spite of the music he is not prepared to let the matter go, not yet.

“What were you going to say?” he repeats. “What did that man say to you?”

“It was about _him_ ,” Sherlock says, and he knows that John will know what he means and he can see that John has come to the correct assumption just by the way that John’s jaw tightens. He adds, “You were the one who told me you did not want to know. I’m simply trying to follow your rule” and hopes that will be enough to dissuade John from asking any more questions. Because what happened is behind them, it doesn’t matter anymore, and bringing it up now will only make things worse. 

John swallows hard and doesn’t speak for a long moment. Finally, he says carefully, “You know, it’s been three days and you haven’t gone down to the Yard. Lestrade has been texting us both. He needs your statement and I think he’s getting pretty pissed. If you don’t go, you know he’ll come here chasing after it. I bet if you went down there and gave your statement, he might have a cold case or something you could work on. Maybe even a brand new one.”

Sherlock frowns and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. This feels like a test. “Boring.”

A mouth twitch indicates that John is fighting back a smile. “I know, but it’s necessary. You could go now, if you wanted.” Pause. “I could go with you.”

Now he knows this is a test, except Sherlock’s not sure what he’s being tested on and that’s not fair. It leaves him feeling like one wrong misstep will get him a failing grade, no second chances. Really, he doesn’t want to go. But John is looking at him expectantly and he knows that at any other time he would be anxious to get his hands on a case, _any_ case, by now. There’s really no other answer. He stops tuning and cradles the violin instead. “Alright. We'll go.”

This time John’s smile is tentative and hesitant and kind of broken.

This time Sherlock doesn’t know how to fix him.


	12. Chapter 12

Lestrade does have a case for them after all, as it turns out. He wasn’t intending to call Sherlock in on it, but as soon as he sees the two of them stepping into his office he invites them along - probably because he knows it’s only a matter of time until Sherlock discovers what’s going on and invites himself along anyway. A new case is fractionally more exciting than a cold one, Sherlock thinks, and at least it makes Lestrade temporarily forget about getting a statement from him. He and John follow along behind Lestrade’s car in a cab and emerge in front of a set of posh flats.

They hear the sound of someone sobbing long before they reach the right place. Sherlock barely spares the weeping woman stationed outside the door a glance as he sails by, looking around the sitting room. Donovan is already there, seated on the sofa beside a pale-faced young man who has an orange shock blanket around his shoulders. His hands are shaking and he’s sipping at a cup of tea while Donovan asks him questions in a low tone. The bedroom proves to be much more interesting, containing the actual body - a man sprawled on his back on the floor with a knife sticking out of his chest - and all of the evidence. 

“I should think cause of death is pretty obvious,” John says but he crouches down regardless, giving the body a perfunctory but thorough examination. “There was a struggle. He’s got small knife wounds on his arms and hands. One of his fingers is broken, and, hmm, a gash in his side, enough to subdue and probably send him into shock. He bled out before help arrived.” He drags the man’s shirt up to show the wound and dried blood.

Sherlock ignores the body for the time being, prowling closer to the bed. There are signs of sexual activity, semen and scented lubrication streaking the sheets, and a little bit of blood, though most of it is on the floor with the body. Ropes have been laced around the headboard and footboard, silky to the touch instead of coarse, and they’ve been sliced cleanly with a knife: likely the same knife that took the victim’s life. He examines the ropes briefly, noting the complicated knots, before leaving the bedroom to listen to the man’s story. Frankly this so-called case is not worth his time, if only because what’s happened is staggeringly obvious.

“Tell us what happened,” Donovan is saying in a soft, soothing voice. “Take your time, but just - tell us.”

“It was,” the man in the shock blanket breaks off when he sees Sherlock and John and Lestrade, his face flushing crimson, and he swallows hard just once before continuing, “it was - supposed to be fun, you know? Andy said, he said he’d done it with someone else, that I’d like it. He wanted to - to tie me, and I said alright because I thought what’s the harm, and he…” He stops and stares down at his hand, at the red mark visible around one thin wrist, and the words come haltingly in short, stagnant little bursts. “He did. Tie me. I didn’t… I wanted him to stop. I said. But. He said we - we’d already started. He. He climbed on top of me. Pushed in. It went on for… I - there was a knife, and I cut myself free, and he wouldn’t get off… So I…” He makes a stabbing motion with his hand, violently. “And then he just… fell over.”

“It’s alright,” Donovan says, patting his hand. Her eyes are hard as stone. “It was self defence. It wasn’t your fault. You wanted him to stop and he didn’t.”

“But you enjoyed it,” Sherlock says, and there is a moment during which everyone in the room turns and looks at him with identical expressions of complete disbelief. He scans their faces briefly, discomfited, before turning to glance at John. The tension in John’s shoulders screams ‘bit not good’, but he’s not really sure why.

“Yeah, I did,” the man says slowly, and there is a peculiar look on his face as he starts to pull away from Donovan. “He - made me…”

“That doesn’t matter,” says Donovan quickly, shooting Sherlock a murderous glare. “We’re going to have to ask you some more questions, though. Is that alright?” When the man gives a tentative nod, she smiles warmly and says, “What happened after he fell over?”

The opportunity to hear the rest of the story is lost when John grips Sherlock by the wrist and physically pulls him out of the flat, past the officers crowding the door who quickly get out of their way, and then down the stairs and out the front door. He looks furious. “What is the _matter_ with you?” he hisses the instant that the two of them are alone. “I know you usually don’t pay attention to social cues and stuff like that, but Sherlock you can’t just _say_ something like that to a rape victim.”

“He’s not,” Sherlock says. 

“Not what?” John finally releases him to run his hands through his hair, and Sherlock rubs at his wrist absently. The spot where John was holding onto him is tingling painfully. For a few seconds John just watches him, and then he lets out a loud sigh and takes hold of Sherlock’s hand. Gently, he tugs Sherlock’s sleeve up and inspects the marks left behind, pulling a face when he realizes that they will likely develop into bruises before the day is out. “Not what?” he repeats, softer this time.

“He’s not a rape victim, John. He enjoyed the experience, he climaxed. You can tell by the semen present on the bed and on his belly, if you had thought to look under the blanket when he was moving his arm around. Lestrade should arrest him for murder, he clearly took advantage of the victim’s post-orgasmic lassitude to strike,” Sherlock explains rapidly. “I wouldn’t say that it’s pre-meditated, far more likely to be opportunistic.” He shifts, stilling under the flexing of John’s fingers, and waits for John to praise him. 

John, however, just stares at him for what feels like a very long time. “Sherlock,” he says, and it sounds as though he is fighting hard to remain patient. “It doesn’t matter whether or not he enjoyed it. That man said no, he made it very clear that he did not want to keep having sex, and that other bloke kept going against his wishes. That makes it rape, and therefore self defence.”

Sherlock digests this bit of information, mulling it over, aware that John is still watching him. It sounds very simple. Probably is. The problem is that it doesn’t entirely fit in with his prior experience. He rarely works rape cases; they’re often boring. Curious now, he looks back at John, seeking clarification. “I don’t understand,” he says finally. “Is it because he was the one being penetrated?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the last chapter was so lovely I couldn't bring myself to make you wait, and since I had a bit of free time tonight I thought I'd treat you.

John looks torn between frustration and confusion. He acts like _Sherlock_ is the one who isn’t making any sense when he says, “What? No! Any sex that someone does or tries to do to you that you say no to is rape. How can you not... _know_ this?” 

“Ah,” Sherlock murmurs, and tugs his wrist free for a second time, absently rolling his sleeve back down. He thinks he understands now, the difference between what Moriarty did to him and what's happened here. In the end, much as he is loathe to admit it, Moriarty is cleverer than Sherlock has given him credit for. “I never said no, so I wasn’t - I see. Thank you, John. Now clearly my services aren’t needed here since there was a confession, and I’m bored so I’ll be leaving. Are you coming?”

There is a very funny look on John’s face now, one that Sherlock doesn’t recognize. “Sherlock,” John says, and he sounds strangled like he has to force the words out. “Sherlock, what are you - ?”

“Freak!” Donovan cuts him off as she storms out of the flat. Lestrade is chasing her and right as she gets to the pavement, he stops her with a restraining hand to her shoulder. She whirls on him instead, letting the full force of her fury out. “How can you defend that bastard after what he said? Miller just told me that he _regrets defending himself_! Said he should’ve just let it happen and left after, that it wasn’t a big deal because he enjoyed it.” Her voice is heavy with rage, her hands shaking like she dearly wishes she could wrap them around Sherlock’s throat. “That _freak_ is disgusting!”

“Donovan." Lestrade is speaking in his best ‘let’s all calm down’ voice. He gets a lot of use out of it. It rarely works. “I agree that Sherlock’s handling of the situation was not ideal. I wouldn’t have allowed him in if I had known that he was going to say - anything like that. But I think it’s best if you let me handle this. You should go in and stay with Miller. He seems to have established a good connection with you.”

“Sherlock,” John says again, and now he is ignoring the two of them entirely. “What did you mean?”

Sherlock drags his eyes away from Lestrade and Donovan reluctantly. Lestrade is wearing that look of contained fury that means Sherlock is going to get a long lecture at the least and banned from future crime scenes until Lestrade's anger dissipates at the worst. He’d like to go before that happens, but John doesn’t seem to be interested in moving and Sherlock’s disinclined to leave without him. “About what?” 

“You just said that you never said no, so you weren’t what? What did you mean by that? What were you going to say?”

John seems oddly tense and Donovan and Lestrade have both gone quiet, and Sherlock is suddenly very aware that he is the centre of a lot of attention. It’s more than a bit uncomfortable, even though he normally lives for this moment. “I - you said you didn’t want to hear about it,” he says. “You asked me not to tell you anything about Moriarty.”

Something passes over John’s face. It’s very dark. “Sherlock.” He’s making an obvious effort to keep his voice low and soothing. It’s not really working that well. He sounds more like he’s speaking the words through gritted teeth. “I want to ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly, fuck whatever I said before. When you were with Moriarty, when he had you tied down - did you want that? Did you _want_ to have sex with him?”

There is an answer here that is the right one, but Sherlock is not sure what it is. His instinct is to lie, but John has asked for honesty and he’s been getting annoyingly good at knowing when Sherlock is lying lately. Slowly, cautiously, he says, “No.” 

“Oh my god,” Donovan says quietly. Sherlock starts to turn to face her but John stops him with a hand pressed very lightly to Sherlock’s elbow. Instead, Sherlock finds himself looking down into John’s eyes. They haven’t stood this close together in a while, not since they returned to being just friends. He’d almost forgotten how very blue John’s eyes can be.

“You didn’t want it,” John says, like he’s trying to be sure he’s heard correctly. “You didn’t - fuck. Jesus Christ. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The pressure of his fingers have tightened slightly, but Sherlock finds he does not mind. He waits patiently until John opens his eyes again. “Right,” he says. “We’re going home.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says uncertainly. It’s what he wanted, leaving, but now John is acting strangely and he’s not sure why. He glances back at Donovan and Lestrade but both of them have turned away. Donovan's clutching at her hair and Lestrade's got a hand on her shoulder. Dismissed, then, and Donovan appears to be close to her limit. Not wanting to risk a punch to the face, he moves closer to the edge of the pavement and throws up a hand to stop a cab. One stops almost immediately and they both get in. John stays close to him during the drive, their thighs pressed together but not in a sexual way. Angry, Sherlock thinks, John is angry at something. At him? Possibly. The idea leaves him feeling ill.

Their arrival at Baker Street is quick, the crime scene not having been that far away, and John gets out first. He also enters the flat first, and as soon as Sherlock is inside he shuts the door. He stands there for a long moment with his hand stretched out flat against the wood, like he’s waiting for something to be given to him, and then he makes a fist and punches the door. In spite of the fact that he knew it was coming, Sherlock still jumps at the sound. It’s the sort of reaction he instinctively tries to hide, but John is watching him and has already seen.

“My god,” he says, "you were… all this time, and I fucking thought - ” He cuts himself off and shakes his head roughly.

This is a bit not good. “John?” Sherlock ventures. “I’m… sorry.” The words taste awkward. He’s not used to apologizing, and John is probably the only person who will ever hear this and have it mean something. But it’s worth it if it will stop John from looking so dreadfully wound up. 

“Sherlock.” John looks at him with a pinched expression, like he might cry, and that’s not right at all. Sherlock stares back at him helplessly as John makes a clear effort to gather himself back together. “I’m going to make some tea, alright? And then we’re going to sit down and you’ll tell me everything. I want to know it all. Every detail of what that bastard did, I want to know, okay?”

Sensing this isn’t the time to point out again that John had expressly said he did _not_ want to know, Sherlock just nods. “Okay.”


	14. Chapter 14

John Watson wants to throw up. He wants to sit down and think about nothing. He wants to punch something again. He wants, he wants, he _wants_ \- to track down Jim Moriarty and kill the man. Preferably slowly and painfully and with great relish, but in a pinch the hot barrel of his gun and Moriarty’s forehead as the only point of contact will do. 

Instead he is standing in the kitchen of 221b, staring down at two mugs and waiting for the teabags inside to finish seeping. The water is slowly turning the right colour, and Sherlock - god _Sherlock_ \- is sitting on the sofa where he can cast the occasional sideways glance at John. And, John realizes with a fresh flush of sickening dread, where he can watch the door and the windows. He tightens one hand into a fist and very deliberately looks away, breathing through the urge to do something other than stand here and make fucking tea.

His phone beeps, momentarily distracting him, and he looks down to see that he has a text from Greg. He doesn’t need to open it to know what it says, but he does regardless. The message is short and to the point, and John types back an equally terse response. He will let Greg know what Sherlock says as soon as he can, but for the time being he just needs a moment alone with Sherlock. He sends the text and closes his phone, then ends up turning it off completely.

By the time the tea is finished, he feels reasonably ready to listen to what Sherlock has to say. He carries the mugs out with him and presses one into Sherlock’s hands, looking his friend over with a doctor’s clinical eye. Now that he knows what he’s looking for, knows that he _should_ be looking for them, he can see the subtle signs that mean Sherlock hasn’t been sleeping or eating well. Guilt plucks away at his heart as he sinks down onto the sofa beside him, leaving a little space, and rests his mug on his knee. “Sherlock -”

“The last thing I clearly recall is the explosion at the pool,” Sherlock says, cutting him off quite neatly. John watches him and he continues, “I must have hit my head because when I woke up I was with Moriarty. He’d tied me down. I suspect I had a concussion because I failed to realize that there was such a simple method of getting free.” He’s frowning, no doubt remembering how easily John had tugged on that rope to unravel the whole thing, and John feels his stomach clench.

He swallows hard. “What happened when you woke up?”

“Moriarty was there. He taunted me.” A pause, this one short but telling, and then Sherlock says very quickly in a flat voice, “He aroused me by touching my penis. When he felt I was suitably excited, he climbed on top of me and forced me to penetrate him. After a few minutes I orgasmed, and so did Moriarty, and then he realized that Scotland Yard had arrived so he left me there.”

The recitation is oddly clinical. That makes it no less difficult to listen to. John looks down at the mug and realizes that the tea is moving, bouncing, and distantly connects that to the fact that his hand is shaking. He’ll slosh tea all over the carpet in a moment if he’s not careful, and Mrs Hudson will fret. The idea that he’s worried about a stain strikes him as immeasurably humorous, and a choked laugh gets caught in his throat. Sherlock looks over at him, alarmed, as John rises up and hurtles his mug at the wall. It shatters and fragments of tea and pottery go in every direction.

“John!” Sherlock exclaims, startled.

Moriarty will die. It is no longer one of those things that is an uncertainty. That is now how it is, how it will be, plain and simple fact. Jim Moriarty will die and he doesn’t care who does it, Greg or Mycroft or John himself, as long as it’s not Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock, who’s been going through this alone while everyone else treated him like shit, while _John_ treated him like shit, and at this rate he might need to fucking kill himself after Moriarty.

“John,” Sherlock says again, more awkward and uncertain this time.

“God,” John breathes out, closing his eyes. He rubs a weary hand over his face. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. “God, I am so sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick briefly to the mug. “It’s just a cup, John. We have others.”

That startles a laugh out of him, a real one, and then he sinks back down onto the sofa and puts his head in his hands. He wishes, for half a moment, that he and Sherlock were different people, because then maybe this would be easier to deal with. As it stands, John doesn't know how to fix this. So much time has passed that to insist on a physical exam seems pointless, and anyway he's not sure Sherlock would agree to it. He has no idea how to go about finding Moriarty. And worst of all, he has no idea how to even begin apologizing to Sherlock. How can he ever make up for the assumptions he made, the things he said?

And that’s not even taking into consideration the things that _Sherlock_ has said - the thought a few of those comments makes him feel like throwing up. It's obvious that Sherlock assumes that what happened was consensual, that he doesn't understand it was a purely physical reaction. And no wonder, considering the way they have all reacted to him. It certainly explains his comments at the crime scene. But how do you sit someone down and explain that they were raped?

"Sherlock," he says very quietly. "I hope you know - that is, I hope you understand that what happened with you and Moriarty was not your fault."

For a very long moment Sherlock does not say anything, and when John finally glances over at him Sherlock is staring at him with narrowed eyes and a faintly puzzled expression as though he is trying to deduce what is going through John's mind. John stares back at him helplessly, wishing that Sherlock were able to do just that, that they could solve this dreadful mess and go kill Moriarty and be done with it all. But somehow he doesn't think it's going to be that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely amazed at the stunning response to this story, and I wish I had the time to respond to every one of your comments. Thank you so much!


	15. Chapter 15

Reading people has never been an easy task for Sherlock. Yes he can look at someone and know most of the intimate details about their life with just one glimpse, but emotions have always been beyond him. It's one of the reasons that Mycroft claims to be more intelligent than his baby brother, because Mycroft can look at someone and know _why_ while often Sherlock can only grasp who, what, and when. And really, in the past that has never mattered much, but at this moment, sitting beside John and seeing the tense, deeply confusing expression on John's face, Sherlock wishes that he could know more. It would be very handy to be able to figure out why John is so distressed.

Because John is not angry, he can tell that much. Or rather he is, just not at Sherlock. His rage - and there’s quite a lot of it - is all directed at Moriarty. And he's upset, extremely so, to the point where he has physically lashed out, which is something that John never allows himself to do (likely because he fears it could end badly - ridiculous but that’s John). Sherlock furrows his brow, thinking rapidly about the conversation that has just occurred between them, and comes up with an answer. 

"You didn't know," he says at last, seeking further clarification of something he already knows is true.

"What? No, of _course_ not. If I'd known -" John stops speaking abruptly, which is exactly the opposite of what Sherlock had intended with his question. But now there is something new in his face, some dawning bit of fresh horror that makes Sherlock feel like someone has reached into his belly and grabbed hold of all of his organs. "Sherlock, you didn't think - oh my god. You thought we _knew_ that Moriarty..." He trails off and looks absolutely revolted.

"It seemed so obvious," Sherlock says hollowly, because when he is in doubt he falls back on sorting through the facts as best he can. He always forgets that not everyone can observe the way he does. Stupid. "And I - I didn't think it mattered because I enjoyed it. I wanted it to happen."

"Sherlock." John holds a hand up to stop him. "This is not your fault. You did not want Moriarty to touch you. You were... raped, Sherlock. And I was, I was wrong. So fucking wrong." He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and shakes his head, then glances up with a grimace. "God. When I think - you were just there, on that bed, and I was so upset and confused about the bomb and the pool, and I was worried and I - Jesus. I can't believe that all of this time, you thought you wanted that to happen. And I let you think that, I made it _worse_..."

If Sherlock didn't know better, and a small part of him is worried that in this case he doesn't, he would think that John is beginning to fall apart right in front of him. That is a bit not good. He needs John to be his steady, reliable self, he needs John to be the anchor that keeps Moriarty away. There must be something in his expression that shows what he is thinking - distressing, that he is losing that much control of his facial muscles - because John stops rambling and leans towards him, one hand outstretched like he might touch Sherlock on the arm. But then, annoyingly enough, he stops, his eyes staring at Sherlock's arm before flicking up to watch Sherlock's face like he thinks Sherlock might faint from the pressure of a single touch.

"I'm not going to break," Sherlock says, irritated. "You don't have to treat me like one of Donovan's sodding victims."

Incredibly, John smiles. It's a small thing, just a brief quirk at the edge of his mouth, but it's still there and Sherlock feels ridiculously pleased to have been the cause of it. "No you're not, are you?" John murmurs, and he's clearly come to some sort of realization. "You don't see yourself that way. You never have." He lets his hand rest, tentatively, on Sherlock's arm.

The warmth emanating from John’s fingers spreads and Sherlock relaxes a bit, hardly aware that he was so tense in the first please. There is more to discuss, but he is not sure that this is the right time to bring it up. He studies John’s face for several seconds longer than he normally would have before speaking. His mind feels overly full, like he is unable to process it all, and he finds himself talking before he can stop it. "John," he says hesitantly, "in the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should tell you that Moriarty contacted me again. I realize you may not want to hear about it, but -"

"No. Wait. He contacted you?" John's sitting straight up now. "What did he say?"

One brief explanation and a quick perusal of Sherlock's text history later another cup goes sailing across the room, where it too shatters against the far wall. Sherlock notes the splatter pattern absently as John begins typing up a new text furiously, hands shaking so hard that it makes it difficult for him to hit the correct buttons. It takes Sherlock less than two seconds to deduce that John is texting Mycroft, which is interesting. Normally John doesn't really care for Mycroft and that suits Sherlock just fine, yet in this case John has seemed the situation dire enough to contact him. 

The question is why? Why would John be texting Mycroft? Sherlock watches him, glancing periodically down at the phone, but the screen is tilted in the wrong direction and he can't read what's being written. Finally, he says, “Why are you texting my brother?”

“I want him to find Moriarty,” says John. 

“He has been trying,” Sherlock points out, remembering their short conversation. 

“Yes, well, now he’ll have new motivation to do it even faster.” John sends the text and looks up. His smile, when Sherlock catches sight of it, is the sort of smile that enemy soldiers and criminals must see shortly before their lives end. It takes every ounce of control Sherlock possesses to not shiver.


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft shows up within the hour. It does not surprise Sherlock: his brother’s always had a way of poking his overly large nose into business that may or may not concern him, and frankly it’s amazing that it took him as long as it has. John is not in the room when Mycroft ascends the stairs and opens the door. After fetching Sherlock another cup of tea and giving him strict instructions to drink the whole thing, he’d disappeared upstairs with his mobile phone. Sherlock doesn’t need to eavesdrop to know that John is calling the surgery to let Sarah know that he won’t be available for work for the next few days. 

“What do you want?” Sherlock grumbles rudely into his tea as soon as the door opens. He’s drunk about half of it and, admittedly, feels better for having done so. The tea is very sweet and milky and he knows his blood sugar is rising as a result, which is exactly what John intended.

“I received an interesting text from John,” says Mycroft, and Sherlock sits up straight and looks closely at his brother. It is unusual for Mycroft to ever provide a straight answer unless it’s absolutely necessary. He much prefers to dance around a topic, leaving clever little word tricks dangling as bait for his latest prey to get tripped up in. The fact that he has given one now is an indication that there is something not right.

“Have you found Moriarty?” he inquires, realizing a bit too late that the question sounds overly eager.

“Not yet.” Mycroft moves further into the room after closing the door, but this time he does not sit down in John’s chair. He sits on the sofa, even though the cushion sinks a few inches under his weight. For once, the expression of displeasure that he would normally wear after such an undignified action isn't present. It’s not even hidden, it’s just _not there_. In spite of himself, Sherlock begins paying more attention, his eyes flicking quickly over Mycroft’s body. But there is precious little to explain his brother’s odd mood, and he exhales in frustration.

“I have no more to tell you if that’s what you’re here for. I told you everything there was to know.” He hadn’t, actually, but that doesn’t really matter: Mycroft will have still found out.

“Technically you didn’t, not if the text that John sent me is true. _Is_ it true, Sherlock?”

The full force of his brother’s deductive stare is nearly enough to make Sherlock squirm. “That depends on what John sent you,” he says, the answer a little breathless. He’d watched John text but hadn’t been able to tell what the subject matter had been about. John could have been threatening Mycroft, or he could have been telling Mycroft that Sherlock hadn’t wanted what happened, that he’d been an unwilling participant, or both. It’s difficult, though, to believe that Mycroft was unaware. If so, it is quite possibly the first time in Sherlock’s life that he has successfully hidden something from his brother and he hadn’t even been trying. How curious.

“Sherlock.” Suddenly, Mycroft looks very old. His shoulders slump fractionally, as though he no longer has the strength to hold them in his normally perfect posture, and the lines in his face deepen. Sherlock stares at him and, unbidden, the thought runs through his mind that _he_ has done this to Mycroft. It’s an unpleasant concept and, before he can stop himself, he twitches and looks away.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says to the wall when he cannot bear the silence for another second. “You already said that you were looking for Moriarty.”

“Yes, but now I have an entirely different plan for him.”

There is a thread of something dark in that sentence and Sherlock turns back to look just in time to observe the same expression on Mycroft’s face that had been on John’s earlier. He’s not sure how to respond, but fortunately John - who has impeccable timing on occasion - thumps down the steps to join them. His blogger does not seem surprised to see Mycroft sitting on the sofa, and in fact greets him with a nod that would seem jaunty at any other time. John walks by without speaking to either of them, pausing only to snag Sherlock’s empty cup, and goes into the kitchen. They sit in silence while he rattles around and when he comes out again he’s got three steaming cups of tea with him.

“Tell me you didn’t know,” he says, pressing one of the cups into Sherlock’s hands. He approaches Mycroft and stands over him with the other two, like if he gets an unsatisfactory response one or both of said cups might end up in Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft meets his gaze steadily. “I didn’t know,” he says quietly, and Sherlock wonders if John realizes just how rare it is to hear those words from Mycroft Holmes. 

John nods and holds out a cup until Mycroft takes it. “You need to find him.” It’s not a request, and John doesn’t sit down after making it. He just backs up a handful of steps until he's standing beside Sherlock’s chair. Though he’s holding his own cup, he makes no move to drink from it.

“I have my best men tracking down the location of James Moriarty. Unfortunately, he is proving to be adept at more than just rape and terrorism.” Mycroft’s lip curls. “Rest assured, John. There is nowhere in the world that he will be able to hide.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll feel a bit more comfortable after he can’t send messages like these anymore,” says John, and he tosses Sherlock’s mobile into Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft picks it up and reads it, and the slow flush of red into his cheeks is unattractive but fascinating to watch. His brother has not looked this furious since the day one of his colleagues kidnapped Sherlock and held him captive for three days. Remembering what happened to said colleague makes him think that Moriarty's days are definitely numbered, because as far as Sherlock knows that colleague is still a gibbering mess locked up in an asylum.

"I will find him," Mycroft says. It's a promise, a vow, an effort to make retribution. "In the meantime, I'd like to offer you both personal guards as a safety measure."

"We'll take it," John says instantly, dropping his hand onto Sherlock's shoulder. It's a possessive move, but he doesn't seem to even register that he's done it. Sherlock thinks about protesting - they are making plans over him, after all, as though he is not in the room at all - but in the end remains silent. There is a sleek sense of satisfaction in watching Jim Moriarty's destruction being planned out right in front of him.


	17. Chapter 17

Night falls, the sun sliding behind the low cloud of fog that is steadily descending on London, and Sherlock grows bored of listening to Mycroft and John speak to each other in hushed whispers on the rare occasion that they deign to notice each other. For the most part, though, John is staring blankly down at his laptop - every once in a while, he'll start to type something only to erase it five minutes later - and Mycroft is preoccupied with his phone. Sherlock isn't entirely sure why his brother is still in the flat, but it doesn't seem like Mycroft is going to leave anytime soon. He gets up from the sofa where he has been dramatically sprawled until now and fetches his violin and bow, cradling the instrument gently in the crook of his elbow.

It has been a very long time since he played. Somehow, in this moment, he no longer feels the need to abstain. It feels okay to place the bow on the strings, to lightly draw it back and forth as though testing to make sure that the instrument can still produce music. The sprinkling of notes causes a sudden silence in the room behind him, but Sherlock pretends not to notice. Eyes half shut, he launches into a song of his own composition, one of the few that he wrote as a child which he has not deleted. It is a heavy sound, the rich sweetness of each note sliding together to create a thick atmosphere that is impossible to walk away from. Gradually, his shoulders relax as the tension seeps from his body.

At some point, he is distantly aware of Mycroft gathering his things together and leaving. His brother does not say good-bye to John or Sherlock, but he does leave behind his umbrella as proof that he was there: a subtle reminder of the unspoken promise he has made. Sherlock opens his eyes and watches through the window as Mycroft steps out the doors of 221b Baker Street. There is a black car waiting for him at the kerb, of course, and Mycroft walks over to the open door with bowed shoulders.

Before he gets in, he pauses. His head lifts and he turns to look up at Sherlock. The distance is too far for their eyes to meet, and yet Sherlock feels a familiar frisson up the back of his neck. Mycroft has told him numerous times that caring is not an advantage, and yet it seems that his brother has broken his own rule.

He continues to play and eventually Mycroft gets into the car and it glides away into the foggy night, leaving behind a contingent of personal guards to watch over 221b and its inhabitants. It takes little effort for Sherlock to pick them out, to know exactly where they are located in spite of their best efforts. He breathes out and draws the bow over the strings more sharply, wondering if the guards will encourage Moriarty. Wondering if he will wake up some morning, perhaps next morning, and find Moriarty sitting over him. Perhaps they will be naked, and perhaps Moriarty will climb on top of him again, or perhaps this time it will be the other way around - 

"Sherlock."

The sound of John's voice, steady and unfailing, cuts smoothly through the jagged, harsh sounds of the violin. Sherlock freezes, his hand going still so abruptly that the notes linger for several seconds longer before dissipating. His breathing feels fast and his throat is oddly tight. He stares out at the seemingly empty street before him for several minutes without speaking, until he feels that he can answer John normally. "Yes?"

"Look at me," John says, and it is all there in his voice: anger and pain and guilt and affection, and it's nearly more than Sherlock can bear.

"I'm busy," Sherlock says, shifting his violin pointedly. It is a paltry excuse at best, certainly not something to stop John, and he knows it. He is prepared for the hand that hovers awkwardly, hesitantly, over his shoulder before coming to rest lightly on his upper arm, the fingers curving warmly across his skin. Gently but persistently, John tugs until Sherlock agrees to turn around. His blue eyes are wide and full of concern, but that does not stop him from scanning Sherlock head to toe. In this, and only this, John's powers of deduction are remarkable. 

"You're exhausted. When was the last time you ate or slept?" The hand on his arm stays there, but is joined by John's other hand across his forehead to check his temperature.

Sherlock doesn't answer him. Not because he does not want to, but because there is nothing he can say. He does not recall the last time he ate or slept. "I'm fine," he says at last, the words coming from a distance.

John closes his eyes briefly. He looks sad when he opens them. "Fine," he repeats, and says nothing more. But he does take the violin from Sherlock's hand, and even though Sherlock doesn't want to let it go he does not fight against its removal. He watches as John sets the instrument back down in its case. Then he takes Sherlock by the arm again and guides him down the hall into his bedroom. "Will you sleep?"

More honesty. Appalling. Yet he answers, "No."

"What about if I stay?" The question is out almost before Sherlock has responded. John has been expecting his answer, then. Sherlock stares at him closely. What is bringing this on? They haven't slept in the same bed since before the night of the pool. Is it because John feels guilty? He studies John's face and decides that it is. Pride alone should make him refuse. But Sherlock can't do it. Because he does want John to stay quite badly, bad enough that the words to make John leave lock up in his throat when he tries to speak. He ends up silent and miserable, but John nods like he has spoken.

"Lay down," he says, closing the door. He watches as Sherlock obeys, stretching out under the covers. Only once Sherlock has rolled onto his side and curled up does John join him, sliding beneath the sheet. He shifts the pillow to a more comfortable position for both of them and watches Sherlock through the darkness. "Go to sleep," he says, "I'll keep watch. It's alright, Sherlock, I've got you."

I've got you.


	18. Chapter 18

John is gone by the time that Sherlock wakes up, and he notices instantly that the mattress beside him is cold enough to indicate that John has been up for well over an hour, likely more. The room is flooded with light, though it's faded and orangey enough to indicate either sunrise or sunset. By the angle, sunset. He rolls over onto his side and looks at the door, which is mostly shut. Open just enough to let through the sound of voices, that of John and Lestrade. He can't make out what exactly they're talking about or what precisely woke him from the deep sleep he'd been having, and although he is still tired enough that he could easily fall back asleep curiosity drives him to find out.

He pushes the covers back and gets up, pulls on his dressing gown and opens the door fully. Perhaps Lestrade has brought him a new case? Or, more likely after yesterday's encounter with the victim, Lestrade has come to deliver a scolding in person. Boring. Sherlock stops just outside of the living room to consider the possibility and wonders if he'd be better off in bed after all. But on the off chance that Lestrade has brought him a case out of desperation - it has happened, in the past - he steps around the corner. John and Lestrade go quiet the second they register his presence and Sherlock takes a moment to observe the two of them closely.

John has showered and changed, though he hasn't shaved. Curious, considering that he rarely allows any stubble to accumulate on his face unless they're on a case. He's had tea but not eaten, and instead of sitting in his chair he's perched on the side of the sofa closest to Sherlock's bedroom. Wants to remain in hearing distance, Sherlock concludes, already turning to Lestrade. The detective is sitting on the other side of the sofa. Unlike John, he hasn't changed or showered, nor has he eaten in the past several hours. The pallor of his skin is what John would term "a bit not good" and he refuses to meet Sherlock's gaze when Sherlock looks at him. It is the first time in memory that Lestrade has acted this way, and Sherlock is fascinated.

"Sherlock," John says, breaking the unusual silence that has fallen. "You're awake."

"Brilliant, John," Sherlock says automatically. The comment lacks the usual biting tone that it would have - should have - been delivered in, but still makes John's lips quirk up into a familiar smirk as he stands up. He approaches Sherlock in a half dozen steps and peers into his face, then lays a hand across his forehead to check his temperature. John's hand is deliciously warm, the palm a little sweaty, and firm. Sherlock stills.

"You're a bit warm. Sit down; I'll get you tea and toast." Leaving no room for argument, John guides him over to the sofa with a hand against his lower back and gently pushes him down. He then disappears into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and Lestrade alone.

The silence stretches. It feels awkward. Sherlock is not one for fidgeting unless there's a reason but in this instance he wishes he had his violin, something with which to occupy himself. Lestrade shows no signs of speaking, so finally Sherlock says, "Have you come to yell at me?"

"What?" Lestrade looks up, wide-eyed.

"You know I detest repeating myself, Detective Inspector."

"I - No, Sherlock, Jesus." Lestrade gives his head a rough shake and leans forward, planting his elbows against his knees. "What makes you think - ?"

"The crime scene. I upset your victim, remember? And dear Sergeant Donovan, mustn't forget about her, she was very angry with me when we left," Sherlock drawls, watching Lestrade's face closely. 

"Oh, right. That's - you're not in trouble over that, Sherlock. Not anymore. I can understand why -" He cuts himself off sharply, breathes out slowly the same way that John did after seeing the texts from Moriarty. "Sherlock, I came to say that I'm sorry. For not asking you questions about Moriarty, I mean." His gaze is serious, intent. Sherlock feels the need to squirm as Lestrade adds, "I'm meant to be your - yeah - and I didn't... God, I jumped to my own conclusions without even bothering to ask you any questions."

"Twisting facts to suit theories," Sherlock says, voice very small. Too small. He swallows hard.

Lestrade smiles faintly. "Yeah, that's right. Instead of theories to suit facts," he says, low and friendly, the way he used to talk to Sherlock when he was strung out and adrift from withdrawal. "It was my mistake. I won't forgive myself for it. I don't expect you to, either. But I'll do my best to make up for it."

Sherlock isn't sure what to say in response. "Thank you," he says at last, because it's the sort of thing that John has drummed into him.

Something flickers across Lestrade's face and his smile tightens at the corners. "You don't need to thank me."

The silence deepens, the two men staring at each other, and it remains that way until John comes back in with three cups of tea and the promised plate of toast. He sits down on Sherlock's other side and nudges the plate into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock takes it after a minute of being jabbed in the ribs and considers the contents: two hot pieces of toast with butter. He discovers that, for the first time in a long while, he is actually hungry. He picks up a piece and bites into it carefully, tearing a small strip off. John and Lestrade are both watching him eat and neither man makes any effort to hide the fact that they're watching. Surprisingly, the scrutiny is not uncomfortable. 

He feels safe.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says once the toast is gone, "have you any idea where Moriarty is?"

The tea is hot and burns when he swallows too hard. Mortified by the way that the liquid is sloshing around the cup, Sherlock sets it down quickly - too fast, some of the tea splashes onto his hand. His trembling hand. He clenches it. "No."

"That's alright," John interrupts, easy and smooth and _hard_. "We'll find him."

"Too right." Lestrade's smile is grim. "But if he contacts you again, no matter when or how - we need to know, okay?"

Sherlock surveys the two expressions, noting the identical anger and frustration and affection hidden in both. He knows that Mycroft will have had security set up on his mobile, but it doesn't seem right to point that out, knows that it is not what John and Lestrade want to hear. He remembers receiving the text the first time, throwing up after, wishing desperately that he could tell John, and says too quickly, "Okay."

"Okay," Lestrade says. His jaw is twitching. "Okay."


	19. Chapter 19

There is a thing, and as much as he tries Sherlock can’t forget about it. In the hours after Lestrade’s departure, after he stood in the doorway for nearly twenty minutes and repeated several times that Sherlock was not in trouble, not banned, and would be called in as soon as there was a case for him to be called in on before leaving, his mind wanders back to this thing repeatedly. A good night’s sleep has done, as John would say, a world of good. It means that his brain is functioning again and that he can actually think in ways that were becoming increasingly difficult before. It had not occurred to him to realize that this may not be good, because this thing is beginning to drive him mad.

The _thing_ is that John, Mycroft, and Lestrade all thought that he wanted to have sex with Moriarty.

Sherlock has not fully contemplated what this means until now, mostly because he was under the impression that he had wanted it too. But as he lays on the couch and stares up at the ceiling, he keeps remembering the open honesty on John’s face when he’d said _this was not your fault_ and _you were raped_. Because if that is true, then it means that all three of them have believed something about him that is not true. They'd fallen for Moriarty’s lie easily, without stopping to question the why or how.

And Sherlock does not blame them, not really, not in the way that John clearly thinks he should. After all, he too failed to realize that he did not want to have sex with Moriarty. It upsets him, but he does not blame them. Sherlock is vastly more intelligent than John or Lestrade, and possibly even Mycroft now that this has happened, and if he didn’t realize that he can hardly expect them to. He has that set very firmly in his mind, the fact that they see but do not observe, and that is not the part of the thing that he can’t forget.

What happens if Moriarty does it again?

That is what Sherlock cannot stop thinking about, the question that has hovered in his mind and become increasingly demanding of his attention ever since Lestrade left. Moriarty has proven that he has connections and power beyond even what Mycroft was prepared for. He has hidden from them ever since the pool. He could be anywhere in the world, from next door to America or Japan. Sherlock doubts he has gone that far, but it is possible. He could return at any moment with some new plan to discredit Sherlock, and then to hold him down and climb on top of him again and -

No. Sherlock forcefully steers his mind away from that path. He will not go there. He will not. 

But what if he does? He thinks about John, about the look on his face that night and the things he’d said, about Lestrade and the way he’s acted at crime scenes, about Mycroft and his disappointment. Those images remain with Sherlock in spite of an attempt to delete them. It feels as though they leave a cold, greasy film on his skin. This is what Moriarty wanted and their reactions have all played into his hands exactly. So if he comes back with another plan, who is to say that the same thing will not happen a second time? Or worse, this time, because Moriarty is nothing if not inventive, and the sheer magnitude of things that he could do -

“Sherlock?”

The sound of John’s voice is accompanied by breath washing over his face, as though John is leaning over him but is too cautious to try placing a hand on his shoulder to stir him from his mind palace. When he fails to respond, John lets out a very soft sigh and the presence disappears, only to return a moment later bearing a thick, heavy woollen blanket. It is the one from John’s bed, and it smells like him: tea, gun oil, the cologne he uses when he’s trying to pick up women, and jam. Sherlock opens his eyes and catches a fleeting glimpse of his flatmate turning away, clearly intending to return to the telly.

“John,” he says.

John jumps. “Jesus, I thought you were sleeping,” he says. “You were shaking. Shivering, I mean. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” says Sherlock, even though he had not noticed. He resolves to pay closer attention to his body from now on. Clearly it is going to need to be monitored if it is going to keep disobeying his mind. He half sits up, causing the blanket to fall from his shoulders and slip down around his lap.

“You’re fine.” John does not look convinced. “Are you sure? Because you don’t look fine.”

“I was thinking about Moriarty.”

Strange, how easy it is to silence John now with these few simple words. John looks caught out, his blue eyes going wide and his breath stuttering. Any mention of Moriarty makes him angry now, and Sherlock can see the haze crossing his face now in the subtle tightening of his jaw, the lines that appear at the corners of his eyes, and the shifting of his weight. Anger, yes, and self-loathing, and guilt: all emotions which were also visible in Lestrade and Mycroft, but which show up so much stronger in John. The silence builds between them until John licks his lips and swallows.

“What were you thinking? About him, I mean.”

“What I would do if he comes back.”

John takes a deep breath and sits down on the coffee table. “He’s not going to get the chance to touch you again, Sherlock. You do know that, right?”

No, he doesn’t. “You don’t know the future, John.”

“I’ll kill him before he gets the chance." 

Sherlock’s eyes flick towards John and then away again. His mouth is dry. He does not speak.

“Seriously,” John goes on, sensing that his reassurance hasn’t worked, “it will be alright.”

Because John is waiting for him to respond, Sherlock nods. But he is not sure how to convey that he can’t shake the lingering feeling that there may be worse things that Moriarty can do than touch.


	20. Chapter 20

Exactly thirteen hours later, a text message appears on Sherlock’s screen from a familiar number. There has been a murder, and better yet it is a particularly interesting one involving two girls, one of whom is missing both eyes, and Sherlock is instantly intrigued. He fetches his coat and is putting it on when John appears, already dressed to go. There is a familiar note of excitement in John's face, but also a resigned wariness that has never been present before. It's also obvious from the way that his jacket falls against his side that he's got his gun with him, even though he doesn't usually take it along for every case.

"Ready?" John says, and Sherlock drags his eyes away from John's waist to see that John is watching him with raised eyebrows.

"Yes. Let's go."

The drive is long, almost to what could be termed the outskirts of London, and Sherlock is fidgeting by the time that they arrive. He leaves John to pay the bill and begins walking towards the crime scene, already anticipating the grisly sight he's about to examine. Lestrade has promised to keep Anderson away for as long as possible, so perhaps for the once he'll be able to examine the bodies without having to take into account Anderson's increasingly high level of blunders. He ducks underneath the police tape and stops short when he comes face to face with Sally Donovan.

Her hands are folded tightly across her chest and her mouth is pursed. "Holmes."

The fact that she actually uses his name is enough to momentarily throw him off balance. Sherlock pauses and gives her a quick once over, noting her stiff shoulders and the way she's standing, almost as though she's expecting some sort of attack. He remembers, too late, how loud John had spoken at the previous crime scene. It has not occurred to him before, the fact that Donovan now knows what happened between him and Moriarty, and now that it has he is uncertain of how to proceed. She's planted in his way like she's not going to let him walk by without a fight, but her posture is not indicative of a confrontation. If anything, this is the most relaxed she has ever been in his presence.

"Donovan," he responds at last, for once not bothering to add on a remark about how he can smell Anderson's pungent aftershave lingering on her skin.

She studies him for a moment longer and then moves aside, giving him leave to pass. Not that he needs her permission, of course, and Sherlock does not hesitate as he walks by without giving her a second look.

John catches up to him a second later and says, "What'd she say?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says, a bit perturbed by that fact. Donovan can be a vicious woman, but sometimes he almost enjoys the barbs that they exchange. It's a way to keep his mind fresh and sharp without turning his attention away from the case, a little distraction that is said and done within a few minutes. Does that have to change now that she knows the truth? Why should it? "She called me 'Holmes'."

"That bothers you."

Sherlock does not respond. He can't articulate why it unsettles him, and he is pleased that John drops the matter when Lestrade approaches them. He lifts one hand and sort of waves towards the two bodies with an air of 'well, go on then', and Sherlock leaves the two of them standing there while he strides over to have a good look. Already, at first glance, he can see so much that the initial report would have missed. None of it is helpful, not until his eye catches on a smudge of chocolate on one of the victim's hands. He crouches down and sniffs, inhaling the overly sweet scent of freshly baked chocolate chip biscuits. When he takes hold of her hand and examines it, he realizes that the chocolate was melted - extremely fresh, then. 

He whips his phone out and begins searching for a bakery in the immediate area. "John, what do you see?"

Making a thoughtful sound, John swings closer and kneels down carefully. He performs a quick but thorough examination, tilting one girl's face back and palpating her throat before he says, "Poison, I'd guess. You can see the discoloration in her lips, and her tongue is swollen. If you open her mouth, there's a rash."

Understanding clicks into place, and Sherlock nearly groans. If it weren't for the fact that one of the girls has a missing set of eyes, this case would've just become extremely boring. "Not poison, allergies," he says as his phone clicks over to a new screen showing that there is indeed a bakery just one block over. "Peanuts are a common allergy, and a severe enough reaction could cause death quickly."

"In both of them?" Lestrade says doubtfully.

"I expect the one with the missing eyes was the true target. She was given the biscuits and not told that they contained nuts and her friend was just an unfortunate casualty." His mind is spinning, formulating and rejecting possible theories that could explain her eyes, and he knows they need to visit the bakery. He starts to turn away, walking towards the pavement, and then it happens.

There is a sharp but strangely muffled sound, like thunder, and then John's arms are around his waist and they're both crashing to the ground. Sherlock ends up pinned under John's solid weight, and when he tries to move John pushes his head down and hisses at him to remain still. People are shouting and running around and Sherlock wants to see what's going on, but John Watson is a damnably stubborn man when he wants to be. He is kept from moving for long, breathless seconds until John finally slides aside and lets him up.

The very first thing Sherlock sees is Donovan speaking quickly into her radio, demanding an ambulance. She looks like she's seconds away from vomiting or screaming or both. Several officers have cleared the alley and he realizes that it was a gunshot they heard, that someone was - or is - shooting at them. John is crouching next to him, one hand placed against the bulge in his waistband though he does not yet draw out the gun. His other hand is on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing so hard it hurts, and when Sherlock follows John's gaze he sees something that makes his stomach clench.

Gregory Lestrade, flat on his back in the middle of the alley with blood pouring from his chest, and as Sherlock stares and John gets up and runs over to Lestrade there is a beep from his phone. Automatically he takes it out and looks at the screen.

_I told you I'd start burning your heart out, didn't I?_


	21. Chapter 21

John Watson has watched many men die right in front of him. Worse yet, he has watched _good_ men die, men who had families and wives, men who didn't deserve the fate that waited for them. Gregory Lestrade is one of those men. He falls to his knees beside Lestrade's shivering body, sizing up the situation with the kind of calm that made him such an asset on the field. He knows that Donovan has called in for help, so the only thing that he can do is try to keep Lestrade stable until the paramedics show. He whips off his jacket and balls it up, pushing firm pressure against Lestrade's shoulder.

"Donovan," he says over the sound of Lestrade's pained moan.

"I'm right here." Sally Donovan has never looked as pale as she does now. Her enormous brown eyes stand out starkly as she crouches down across from John and her hands are trembling slightly. But she looks composed, ready and waiting for any commands. "What do you need me to do?"

"Keep an eye on Sherlock," John says tensely. It bothers him more than he wants to admit that he had to leave Sherlock's side to help Lestrade. He has to fight to keep his attention focused on his patient. He keeps wanting to turn around and track Sherlock, make sure that he's still there and hasn't gone missing.

Donovan recoils slightly. "You want me to - why?" But as soon as she asks, there is a dawning light of understanding in her face. She is not a stupid woman, and she gets far more than most people give her credit for. She takes another look at Lestrade and her jaw tightens in anger, though it's impossible to tell whether the emotion is directed towards Sherlock or Moriarty. Probably both. "Alright. Yes, that's - that's fine. We'll follow you to the hospital."

"Thank you." He spares her no more attention, focusing all of his concentration on Lestrade and the fact that the man's losing colour rapidly. But he senses Donovan standing up and moving away and he hopes that she'll do as he's requested, that in a few hours he'll have to suffer one of Sherlock's strops because John dared to set Sally Donovan on him. It will be worth it. He pushes down harder.

Lestrade makes another soft sound of pain and opens his eyes. "John?"

"I'm right here, Greg."

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Behind me. Donovan's with him." John doesn't know if that shot was intended for Sherlock. It could've been meant for Lestrade or maybe even John himself. Or maybe there was no real target and it's unrelated to Moriarty, just a case of the wrong place at the wrong time, though that doesn't seem likely. "He's fine."

"Good." Lestrade closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It comes out shaky. "Fuck, haven't hurt this much since the time that I tried to follow that idiot on one of his mad dashes across London."

John chuckles in spite of himself. If Lestrade can joke, the wound may not be as bad as it seems. "Yeah, he can be a real idiot sometimes. You should see the injuries he does to himself, and he doesn't even notice until he stops and everything catches up with him all at once." He pauses, suddenly realizing exactly how his words could have been taken. From the knowing look Lestrade gives him, they're on the same level.

"Look, John, I'll be fine. You should be with Sherlock."

"You're bleeding -"

"It's not that bad, even I can tell that much." He flexes the fingers of his hand, or tries to, and grimaces.

"I'm not leaving you, Lestrade."

"John -"

The piercing sound of sirens cuts him off. Seconds later, an ambulance screeches to a stop at the end of the alley. John is relieved to see them, grateful that in a few short seconds someone with the proper equipment will be taking over. He looks down at Lestrade and gives an encouraging smile, but it doesn't seem to make Lestrade feel any better. Lestrade reaches up with his good hand and grips John's wrist, his hold surprisingly tight for someone who is risking the possibility of bleeding to death on a disgusting alley floor.

"John, _go_. You don't know what Moriarty might've planned, maybe this was just to get us both out of the way, and you know Sherlock doesn't trust Sally. He might give her the slip. We said we'd protect him, John, and you being here isn't doing that."

John knows, he _knows_ , but he still doesn't move until the paramedic comes and ushers him out of the way. He sticks around just long enough to make sure that they know what they're doing. Only then does he turn, sweeping the alley for any sign of Sherlock. The fact that he doesn't see Sherlock or Donovan makes his heart stop momentarily. He feels like he only begins to breathe again when he jogs to the end of the alley and sees Sherlock standing on the pavement, texting furiously while Donovan leans against a store window and watches. She straightens as soon as she sees him.

"How is he?" she asks anxiously.

"They're taking him in, I think. You can go with them if you want," John says, and she immediately pushes past him. He moves closer to Sherlock, conscious of the fact that the two of them are standing out in the open. It would be very easy to get off another shot.

"The sniper has already been found," Sherlock says quietly without taking his eyes away from his phone. "You're very tense, John, and you keep looking around. Try not to be so obvious."

Obvious. Right. John relaxes slightly, but he knows he'll feel better when Sherlock is under cover. "Do you want to head to the hospital?"

Sherlock goes still, and John thinks that probably means yes. But he's not surprised when Sherlock says, "The case isn't finished yet."

"Right." John closes his eyes briefly. He has a difficult time believing that Sherlock could be so callous. Maybe before he would have, but now he can see the subtle signs of Sherlock's stress: the stiffness in his shoulders, the tremor in his hands. He rests a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's get to it, then, yeah? I bet Lestrade could use some good news."


	22. Chapter 22

The true culprit is discovered with just a quick visit to the bakery. There is only one staff member missing, having walked off the job about three hours ago with no advance warning, and they do indeed sell chocolate chip biscuits that contain peanuts. The proprietor of the shops looks horrified when John tells her what happened, and she freely gives up all of the information they need about the staff member in question, including the fact that this woman has some skill with knives.

From there they make the short journey to the woman's flat, where - as Sherlock expected - she is in the process of trying to pack her things. Sherlock does not bother to knock; her lock is flimsy at best and it takes the work of seconds to open it. She screams when she sees Sherlock and throws herself out the window onto the fire escape. He goes after her with John right behind him, but the start of what has the potential to be a thrilling chase ends abruptly when she trips on the way down and falls the last few steps, skinning her knees and striking her forehead. By the time they finish the climb down to her, she's sobbing and babbling excuses.

"I had to kill her, don't you see?" she says pathetically, clutching at her leg. "She'd stolen my fiancé. We were engaged to be married and that - that _slut_ took him away from me!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes as John says, "And for that, you killed two people?"

"Two people?" She stares at him in bafflement.

"It turns out that her friend was allergic to peanuts too," says John, and grimaces as the woman promptly folds in on herself wailing even louder than before.

It's disgusting, and Sherlock takes his phone out intending to text Lestrade and request that he take this annoying creature out of their hands as soon as possible. He freezes, though, remembering where Lestrade is and how incapable he is of helping them. John glances over, noting the expression on his face, and then reaches out and gently takes the phone out of Sherlock's hands. He knows his way out around Sherlock's phone well enough by now, but when he unlocks the phone and sees the latest text still on the screen he goes very quiet and very still.

"Sherlock..." he says, voice hushed. 

Sherlock says nothing.

John takes a deep breath, mouth pressing into a thin line, and types out a message to Sally Donovan instead. He puts the phone in his pocket without comment, and they stand in silence for about fifteen minutes until they hear the sound of sirens and see flashing lights. A couple of officers clamber out of the car and dash over to them. Neither of them look familiar, but they've clearly been warned about Sherlock because they don't try to talk to him. They cuff the woman and one of them takes her off to the car.

The other says to John, "I'll need your statements."

"Later," John replies.

"Sir, I must insist -"

"I don't fucking care if you insist. We're going to the hospital to see how D.I. Lestrade is doing," John says, low and quick and tense. It's the way he talks right before he punches someone. The officer is apparently smarter than he looks, because his eyes go wide and he actually takes a half-step back in acknowledgement. 

"Um - very good, sir."

With one last parting stare, John walks by him and Sherlock follows. He summons a cab and John directs the cabbie to the nearest hospital, and then he turns to Sherlock and says, "Were you planning to show me that?"

"I don't know," Sherlock responds, because it's the truth. He hadn't got that far yet. "Probably, once we were at the hospital and you'd washed your hands." He deliberately does not look down at John's hands. They're still covered in blood, dried now, and the thought of it makes his skin itch. Normally he can handle blood with no problem, but this is _Lestrade's blood_ and that makes it - well, he's going to need a new phone.

It takes John a second to understand the inference, and then he grimaces. "Right, yes, sorry. I just - fuck, I can't believe the absolute gall of that bastard. This is all just some sick game to him." He sighs and looks out the window. "I hope Mycroft finds him soon."

"He won't," says Sherlock, and when John sends him a questioning look he continues, "You're correct. This is a game for Moriarty. A _fun_ game, at least for him. He won't stop until he's backed into a corner, until it's time for him to present his finishing move. My brother can use all of the British government's resources that he wants and I suspect it won't make a difference."

John is silent while he mulls this over. Finally, he says, "I think you're wrong."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

"Moriarty might be a monster, but he's also human. Just like you and Mycroft. You two aren't infallible, so he can't be either. And that means it is possible to stop him before he hurts anyone else."

Where does it come from, this odd faith that everything will turn out for the best? After everything that John has seen and done, it never ceases to amaze Sherlock that John can still think this way. For a moment, a split second suspended in time, he envies John for this ability. He wonders what it must be like to not be able to look at the cold, hard facts and make accurate deductions. Watching the determined expression on John's face, he thinks it must be nice.

"I know you don't believe me," John continues through the silence, "and that's fine. I don't really need you to." He smiles grimly, a faint twitch at the upper left corner of his mouth, and looks out the window. "For what it's worth, I think Lestrade will be fine. He's in relatively good shape, though he could stand to take better care of himself, and the bullet didn't hit anything serious. Course we won't know for sure until we get there, but I thought I'd let you know."

Though the diagnosis is far from official, Sherlock feels something that's been wound tight in his chest relax ever so slightly. "That's good," he says quietly.

John turns to look at him again. "Yeah, it is."


	23. Chapter 23

Lestrade remains in surgery for a good four hours. During that time, Sherlock goes back and forth between sitting in the hard plastic chairs beside John and pacing the length of the hall. About two hours in one of the nurses tries to get stroppy with him for blocking her way, and he reduces her to tears in the thirty seconds it takes John to return from getting two cups of (awful) coffee and some sandwiches. After John repeatedly apologizes and uses his best smile to talk the nurse out of having them both kicked out, he makes Sherlock sit down in one of the chairs and shoves a cup of coffee and a sandwich into his hand. Sherlock opens his mouth to protest and is silenced by the look that John gives him. It is a look that says 'do not fuck with me you utter tit because I am exhausted and annoyed and at my limit'.

John has very vocal expressions.

Sherlock eats the sandwich.

"We should be hearing something before long," John says between sips of coffee. The food seems to have improved his temper to the point where he is no longer annoyed. "I found out that the surgeon looking after him is one of the best, though. Mycroft must have pulled some strings."

It would be just like Mycroft to interfere where he has no business doing so, but for once Sherlock can't find it in himself to make any sort of comment about his brother's nosiness. He finishes the sandwich and crumbles the plastic wrap, letting it drop carelessly on the floor just for the sake of the exasperated huff John makes when he has to lean down and pick it up. Sherlock hides his smirk behind the remains of his coffee and says, "Brilliant deduction, John. The alley where Lestrade was shot was covered by CCTV cameras, yes."

"Do you think Mycroft saw something?" John asks quietly, placing the ball of wrap on the empty chair beside him. He is unwilling to leave Sherlock's side again so soon, though whether that is for Sherlock's sake or that of the nurses is debatable.

"It's possible." Sherlock has not considered this, and he wonders why it has not occurred to him before now. Closing his eyes, he pictures the alley again. He knows the general location of nearly every CCTV camera in London, but recalling the exact angles of said cameras in areas he does not frequent was never something he put a great deal of attention into learning. The shot came from above, he knows that, probably from the window of the residence on the left - the angle was not right for it to have come from the roof. So the question remains, then, whether or not the camera would have been properly tilted to see the windows. 

"Oh Jesus," John mutters beside him suddenly, and then he starts to fidget.

"Hello John," a familiar female voice says a moment later. "And - Sherlock." The voice becomes marginally less friendly when speaking his name, unsurprisingly. Sherlock opens one eye and regards Sarah Sawyer without speaking. She is dressed in a white blouse with a yellow stain on the hem (small child running a high fever) and a blue skirt, over which she is still wearing her doctor's coat.

"Sarah." John is nervous as he greets her, glancing at Sherlock just once, briefly, before looking up at her. "What are you doing here?"

"Young patient of mine had to be sent on to A&E. I promised I'd come visit after my shift was over. And then while I was here, I thought I'd drop in on one of my friends," Sarah replies. "And you? Neither of you looks injured."

"One of our friends was shot during a case," John explains, and Sherlock does not need to be watching to know what the shuttered look on Sarah's face means. She has not forgotten her brief brush with criminals. It has cast a fog over any potential dates that she and John have been on since. That was why their relationship ended in the first part, and it is obvious that things have not got any better since John approached her after the pool. She can't bring herself to relax, too worried that she might be involved again, and neither can John because he feels a near constant need to make it up to her in some way. 

As though sensing the direction his thoughts have taken, John pinches him on the arm, down low where Sarah can't see, and then gets to his feet. "I'll walk you out if you're headed that way," he says. "Sherlock, stay here."

Sherlock waves a lazy hand in response and watches as the two of them walk away. John looks back a handful of times before they get into the lift, a fact which Sarah notes judging by the tense set of her shoulders and the little frown line between her eyebrows. She is not comfortable with the relationship between him and John, but Sherlock ceases to care the instant something more interesting happens: Molly Hooper gets out of the lift. She spots him and makes a beeline.

"Sherlock, how is he? Have you heard anything?" she asks anxiously. 

"No," Sherlock says, watching as her face crumbles. This is new, he realizes, annoyed with himself for not having deduced it sooner. Lestrade and Molly? It makes sense.

"Oh dear, I'm so worried," she's saying, her fingers plucking at the edge of her coat. She notices Sherlock's scrutiny and turns pink. "I didn't - oh, you didn't know, he said he didn't want you to - not that we were trying to keep it a secret or anything but he was just so kind when he was asking me questions about Jim and I -"

"Sit down, Molly," he interrupts before she can stumble her way any further, and she makes a nervous little squeak and sinks down into the chair recently vacated by John. Even though she's just come from work, she's got her hair up in a fancy tail and she's wearing new earrings. Nice ones, not the dreadful, cheap little bobs she normally wears. He says, "John thinks he will be fine."

"Oh," Molly says again, breathes it really, like a prayer. "That's - that's good."

"Yes," Sherlock says quietly, watching her face before he looks away. "It is."


	24. Chapter 24

John is relieved when the lift doors open and more people get on, even though it leaves him jostling for position. It helps to take away from the awkward tension that is lingering between he and Sarah, one that he isn't sure how to break. It doesn't help that he keeps asking himself why he's even here, why he even bothered to escort her downstairs when he could have just given her a call later to explain the situation. But then, his mother had raised to be a gentleman and breaking up with a woman over the phone is one of those things she'd have probably smacked him for. Even if he's not sure you can break up after one or two shit dates.

On the ground floor, he waits for Sarah to exit first and then follows her outside. The night has turned cool as the sun goes down behind the clouds, and Sarah shivers and draws her lab coat closer around her body. If John had his jacket he'd offer it to her, but it's still upstairs with Sherlock. Which is kind of ironic, as that is also where John wants to be. He can't shake the feeling that even in a hospital surrounded by people, Sherlock might still be in danger.

"So is this it?" Sarah says, and John looks around automatically for her car before realizing she hadn't said "this is it". She's staring at him with a frankly knowing expression on her face, and the set of her shoulders suggests that he is going to get a quick brush off if he tries to reach out and touch her.

"Sarah -"

"Oh god you're going to try to give me a line, aren't you?" She gives a little shake of her head, eyes open wide in wonder. "You know John, when you called me back and suggested that we give things another shot I was sceptical. I really was. I wasn't sure I wanted to get caught up in your life again, but I thought that you deserved another chance. You're a nice guy, and I really haven't met many nice guys. I thought this time, maybe we could make it work. I should have known that it wouldn't go anywhere."

Okay, now he doesn't know how to respond. "I really like you," he says lamely.

"And I like you, but clearly that's not enough. I saw the way you were looking at Sherlock before you noticed that I was there, John." She sighs and shoots him a tired look. "I think maybe it's time you stopped trying to pretend that there's nothing between you two."

"I'm telling you, Sherlock and I aren't like that." _Anymore_ , he adds silently, because acknowledging this out loud still hurts. He hasn't dared to bring up the state of their relationship with Sherlock, not after he essentially dumped the man for having been raped. But he knows that things will never be the same, and frankly considers himself lucky that Sherlock hasn't ordered him out of the flat altogether.

"I don't believe you," Sarah says flatly. "And even if you were telling the truth, seeing you here tonight and knowing _why_ you're here, that someone else was shot and it could've been you... I can't deal with that, John. I just can't. I can't be your second choice, knowing that you'll always be waiting for the call of Sherlock Holmes. It's over."

The words hurt, but it's not like John hasn't seen this coming. It was a foolish move to contact Sarah again in the first place. He'd been hoping that dating her again would bother Sherlock, because Sherlock had never liked her much, and he knows that was cruel. It had never been about Sarah, he'd been using her as a ploy, and he can't blame her for not wanting any more part in it. He shifts his weight and gives an uncomfortable sigh, knowing that it's a bad sign when all he can think about is if this will affect his shifts at the surgery. And like she _knows_ what he's thinking, Sarah clears her throat.

"I think it would be best if we let you go," she says quietly. "You can come to the surgery over the next day or two to pack up your things, but I'm not comfortable with seeing you there anymore."

"That's fair," John says, because what else can he say? The lack of money will be an issue, it always is, but it's not as though he really wants to tear himself away from Sherlock any more than he strictly needs to. Even now he feels anxious, and he just wants to get this over with already so he can go make sure Sherlock is right where John left him.

Sarah stares at him for a moment, her face pinched into a frown, and it's obvious she was hoping he would make more of a protest about the whole situation. When John just looks back at her, she heaves a frustrated sigh and starts walking off. "Do _not_ follow me," she snaps over her shoulder when John makes to do just that. "I can get to my car without your bloody help, John Watson!"

Stung, John remains standing where he is. He can't resist following Sarah with his eyes for as long as he can, until she disappears out of sight behind a large truck. Only then does he turn and start back into the hospital. He takes the lift up, and when the doors open and he spots Sherlock and Molly and a doctor down the hall it's like a band wrapped tight around his chest suddenly eases. Sherlock is looking at the doctor standing in front of them with that look he gets, the one that says 'you are annoying me beyond all belief', but he's _there_ and that's all that matters.

"Hey," he says, striding towards them quickly.

Molly's face is drenched in tears, but she still beams at him. "He's going to be alright," she says breathily.

"It will still be a few hours until he's out of any real danger, but we think he's going to pull through," the doctor says with the patient air of someone who has explained this several times already. "Right now he's still under sedation, but I'll let you know as soon as he wakes up."

"Thank you," says John with a nod as he sinks down into the seat on the other side of Sherlock. He glances at the man out of the corner of his eye. He's experienced enough with Sherlock to see the relief Sherlock is trying in vain to hide, but that's alright: as long as Lestrade is okay.


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock's phone is ringing, and it does not take a genius to figure out who is on the other end. Only one person insists on calling when texting is suitable. He ignores it the first few times, squirming against the uncomfortable plastic chairs as it vibrates in his pocket, but then his discomfort gets noticed by John. For a moment John looks puzzled, but then his eyes land on Sherlock's trousers and understanding flashes across his face. He sighs and reaches out, sliding a hand across Sherlock's thigh and into his pocket automatically. Only once he's actually got his fingers on the phone does he freeze with mortification.

"Oh," he says, and then, "god, sorry. I didn't - I wasn't trying to, I mean -" and it's fascinating to watch the way a dull red flush creeps around his cheeks and spreads down his neck. 

"It's fine," Sherlock says, because it is. They've done this a thousand times before, John fetching his phone from various pockets, and it does not bother him now. He could see the touch was coming, knew who it was, he nods his head in a sharp jerk. "Go ahead, he's only going to call back. You might as well answer it because I'm not going to."

John breathes out slowly and finishes pulling the phone out, peering at the screen. "Mycroft," he mumbles, just as the phone begins to vibrate again. He stands up, putting the phone to his ear, and walks off down the hall. Sherlock watches him go while Molly watches him.

"You," she ventures, "you look different."

Sherlock's eyes flick towards her, then away. He says nothing.

"I mean - oh, not in a bad way, I didn't... that wasn't..." Molly blushes too, her redhead's fair skin betraying her embarrassment. She twitches her hands, wrings them together, and ducks her head. "I just... when John's not around, you look different. As soon as he's not looking - you go all... tense."

"What are you trying to imply?" Sherlock asks coolly, and surprisingly the question actually seems to centre her rather than cause her to become even more flustered. She puts her hands in her lap and straightens up, meeting his gaze squarely.

"Nothing," she says quietly. "I'm not trying to imply anything. I was just saying. You look different around John. I didn't know if you knew."

It's far from the first time that someone has insinuated that Sherlock does not know everything, but for some reason this hits deeper than he is used to. He shifts again, a slight frown tugging at his lips, checking for John. He's only a few feet away, muttering into the phone, just far enough that the conversation can't be overheard. But Sherlock can still discern that he's displeased with whatever Mycroft's telling him. He's broken up with Sarah, Sherlock knows, and John is not all that disappointed about it: it's written in the way he'd walked up to them, like a weight has been taken off of his shoulders. 

The silence drags on and Molly sighs. "All I really knew about you was that you were the kind of man people told me I was crazy to have a crush on," she confides, now staring straight ahead. "I thought you were - well. Cruel. You say the worst things sometimes..." She trails off, then smiles a private little smile. "But he - Lestrade, he said that you weren't like that. That you were a great man. And now I believe him. Seeing you here, it - he'd be happy if he knew, you know? Or maybe you don't, but you should. Know, I mean. He really likes you. I do too. So if you - well, if I can help, just let me know."

Sherlock finally looks at her, and there are not many people in the world who can surprise him but apparently Molly Hooper is one of them. He's always dismissed her as the flighty girl who worked in the morgue, the one who was foolish enough to get taken in by Jim Moriarty. But the way she's looking back at him suggests that there is rather something more to her than he realized, and he is reminded all over again that Molly is not the only one who was fooled, who thought that Moriarty was not as dangerous as he is.

He's saved from responding by John, who comes back to them and says, "Mycroft's got the sniper."

"The one who -" Molly jerks his head down the hall and raises her eyebrows.

John nods. "It took him some time, the CCTV cameras weren't really working properly, but he says that if we want to come by and hear..." He looks at Sherlock, and it is blatantly obvious how much John wants to go.

"I'll call you," Molly says almost at the same time. "Just give me your number, and I'll let you know as soon as he is awake."

John tells her the number as he slides a hand under Sherlock's arms and pulls him up. Molly enters it into her phone - bright pink, Sherlock notes with horror, and covered with glittery stickers of _kittens_ \- and they leave her there waiting, like the most well-intentioned but technically worst guard in the whole world. Sherlock glances over his shoulder as they step into the lift and yes, as he expected, she has leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

"She won't stop Moriarty," he can't help pointing out.

"That's why Mycroft had guards sent over, genius." John hits the button and the doors close, the lift descending in a smooth sweep. His smile is not mocking, but kind. "I didn't want to say that in front of Molly because I didn't want her to worry about anything else happening. Lestrade will be safe and so will she."

It's more a comfort than Sherlock wants to admit, and he tucks his hands into his pockets. "Did my brother say where the sniper is being kept?"

"No. Probably some warehouse."

Sherlock cocks his head slightly. He could enlighten John, or he could wait and see the look on John's face. John sees his expression and his eyes narrow, but before he gets the chance to ask the doors open. Sherlock strides out, heading straight for the familiar black car that is already waiting out front. Anthea stands beside the open door, her Blackberry clutched between gloved hands. She does not look up to greet them, but her eyes do rise, meeting Sherlock's briefly, and that is as much an expression of concern he'll ever get. He pauses, grants her a cordial nod, and gets in.


	26. Chapter 26

They don't end up in London at all. It takes effort for John to bite back all of the questions that want to pour out as the car seamlessly glides out of the city, leaving the lights of London behind for the quiet darkness of the country. Within half an hour, the only light in the car comes from Anthea's Blackberry. It's just bright enough for John to be able to see Anthea and Sherlock. Anthea is ignoring them both, totally focused on her phone, but Sherlock is fidgeting - and it only gets worse the further they go.

John suspects that his every move can be read by both of the people in the car before he makes it, probably before it even becomes an option for him, because even after months of living with Sherlock he is still an open book. That does not stop him from sliding his hand across the seat, the movement mostly hidden by the darkness, until he comes into contact with another hand. Slowly, giving plenty of chance for Sherlock to pull away if he wants, he puts his hand atop of Sherlock's and waits, savouring the moment. Sherlock's fingers are long and slender, deceptively fragile: hiding his true strength. In spite of it all, John still loves those hands. He keeps looking out the window, and after a moment Sherlock relaxes.

It's a little bit easier to breathe after that, and the car ride does not feel quite as long as before. They travel in continued silence, broken only by the rumble of thunder and distant flash of lightning. John's curiosity mounts as the car finally begins to slow, and then it turns off of the main road entirely. They pass through a grand set of gates and continue on up the way until the car stops, at last, in front of a building. There is not a single light to be seen aside from the Blackberry, but John has the feeling that this building is massive. The sort of home that only the richest of men can own. He thinks he knows where they are.

The door opens and Anthea climbs out first, skirt carefully tucked around her thighs. Sherlock follows. His grip remains tight on John's hand, pulling John along. John scrambles to hurry, not wanting to lose that hold, particularly when Anthea locks her Blackberry and tucks it away into a pocket. Suddenly they are in complete darkness, and he is keenly aware that it would be all too simple to walk in the wrong direction without even realizing. They are out in the middle of nowhere.

"Sherlock," he begins, the question coming to his lips automatically. The soft squeeze to his hand silences him before he can ask anything else. Furrowing his eyebrows, John bites back any further queries and follows when Sherlock starts to walk. Their feet impact against the ground for only a minute, possibly less, before his toe strikes against something different. Wood, he identifies, and then realizes: stairs.

He climbs them carefully and is only aware of being inside when he notices that the cool breeze is no longer ruffling his hair. Sherlock stops abruptly and John nearly walks right into him. As their bodies impact, there is the sound of a match being struck. Flickering light blazes in, illuminating their surroundings. John closes his eyes instinctively against the pain, turning his head away. It takes his smarting eyes a few seconds to adjust, and when they finally do he glances back to see what's going on.

Mycroft is standing in front of them, holding a candle. That, combined with the suit he's wearing, makes him look like a character out of an old storybook. He lifts his head and says, "Good evening, Sherlock. John. How is the dear detective inspector?"

When it becomes evident that Sherlock is not going to respond, John clears his throat. "He's doing well. The doctor said the surgery went fine." He pauses, because this is not at all what he expected, and looks around. Thanks to the candle, he can see that they're standing in a large hall. There are pictures on the wall, the figures shadowed and distorted. Should he ask? He probably shouldn't ask. With a Holmes, he never knows if he wants to know the answer. "Are you being dramatic again, Mycroft?"

Sherlock snorts, and only because they're standing so close does John feel the tremor of amusement that runs through him. Mycroft's smile sours slightly. "We've had a power outage because of the approaching storm," he says frostily. 

"Right," John says slowly, not at all sure that's the actual truth. This _is_ the man who kidnapped him the first time they met rather than just calling him on his phone like a normal person. "You said you had the sniper that shot at Sherlock?"

"I do. I mentioned that there would be some guards monitoring the two of you until this was resolved. When the shooting began, they immediately moved to identify the sniper and capture him. It took some time, as the CCTV footage of that area is subpar at best." He shifts, holding the candle higher, clearly not impressed about this oversight. "After ensuring that you two were safe, they brought him here. He's been in a holding cell ever since. I knew you would not come before you were aware of Detective Inspector Lestrade's condition."

"I want guards on Lestrade from now on," Sherlock says, staring at his brother intently. It could almost be a challenge, were it not for the fact that, hidden by the way they stand, his hand still clutches John's. They both know that guards won't do much to stop Moriarty, but it's a start.

Mycroft's expression turns briefly thoughtful before he nods. "Already done, Sherlock. Now, come this way." He turns on his heel and begins to walk, and unless they want to left in darkness they've got no choice but to follow. John doesn't bother to try looking around, he's focused on Sherlock: on the tension in the man's shoulders, how stiffly he walks, and he knows that Sherlock is terrified even though he refuses to show it. He suspects that Sherlock has probably forgotten that they are still holding hands, his mind too busy concentrating on what they're about to hear. It's the only reason the detective is still allowing the familiar touch that could be easily construed as weakness.

That's fine. John doesn't care. As long as he can be there, be here for Sherlock, that's all that matters.


	27. Chapter 27

The estate now is nothing like it used to be when Sherlock was young and their parents were around. Certainly, Mycroft has left the necessities in place: the outside of the estate still looks mostly the same, and the first few rooms inside do as well - it wouldn't do for someone nosy to come visiting and realize that there is something more to the place, after all. But the further they walk, the more changes that Sherlock automatically registers. The staff quarters has been converted into an armoury. The kitchen has been upgraded, losing the old world charm that their mother favoured, into something sleek and sterile. The bedrooms upstairs are all possessed by unsmiling men and women who dress in dark colours and do not look Sherlock or John in the eyes. This has become Mycroft's stronghold, his kingdom.

Sherlock has to fight back the admittedly childish urge to knock the candle over and burn it all to the ground. He can't help thinking that Mummy would not have been pleased, would have thrown a _fit_ if she could see what Mycroft's done to everything, particularly the library. He remembers an enormous room with a fireplace that contained a perpetually, sweet-smelling fire, one that the maids were required to attend at all hours. There had been furniture, chairs and a sofa, and a thick rug that was lovely for sprawling upon. The walls had been nothing but shelves containing thousands of books on every subject, from fiction to non-fiction, including schoolbooks. Those had gone untouched after Mycroft's departure, of course, but Sherlock'd had quite a few favourite books on criminology. He wonders where they've gone.

Because now the room has been converted into a prison cell, albeit a large one. The windows to the outdoors are gone and the walls, floor, ceiling are all seamless, covered in a heavy grey substance - likely metal. The only lights come from high up, electric behind thick glass. A man stands in the middle of the room, visible through tinted glass that Mycroft has specially installed. John stops short when he sees it, and he says, "You've got a bloody prison cell in your house?"

"Mycroft has one, apparently," Sherlock says absently, already focused on the man in the cell. He is blonde, like John, but his hair is darker, bordering on light brown. He's tall, with thick shoulders and developed muscles on his arms, thighs and calves. His arms are folded and he stands with his legs spaced evenly apart. He's wearing blue jeans and a brown t-shirt, just simple. Sherlock stares for only a minute before realizing what is wrong: this man looks normal. Utterly normal. _Too_ normal. It's as though someone has gone over him and removed every single piece of telling information from his person, even taught him how to stand so that nothing will be given away.

"You see, then," Mycroft says, setting the candle down. John glances at it and frowns.

"Thought you said there was a power outage."

"Some things, John, you do not leave to chance."

"He's not said anything yet?" says Sherlock, though he already knows the answer. This man will not give his secrets away, no. He has been far too well trained for that.

"We know his name. Sebastian Moran." Mycroft does not look at either of them. "He is Moriarty's right-hand man."

"Jesus," John breathes, stepping closer to the window. "How d'you know?"

"A blood test. He was a colonel in the army. It must not matter to Moriarty much if that information was never removed from the system," Mycroft explains. "As it was, Moran was not an easy capture. He took down three operatives before they were able to sedate him, and he has not spoken a word since he woke up. I've looked at his files - he was stationed in Afghanistan at the same time as you, John. He worked his way up through the army quickly, but something happened there that has not been recorded. He never rose any further through the ranks, and after he was there for two years he was unexpectedly returned home and dishonourably discharged."

John has gone pale, Sherlock realizes suddenly. "Colonel Sebastian Moran?" he says, and the words are familiar to him just by the way he says it. 

"You know him?" Sherlock asks the obvious question, regretting it as soon as John looks over at him. The _look_ on John's face...

"Yeah, I..." John runs his tongue over his bottom lip, teeth pulling at it, a nervous tick he's never got rid of. "I didn't see much of the fighting when we were there. I was usually behind the front lines. But we saw a lot of soldiers go through the hospital. He might've - I think I operated on him. The name is familiar." He looks disgusted and Sherlock can read his thoughts perfectly: he'd saved the life of a murderer, of the man who had nearly killed Lestrade.

"Do you know why he was discharged?" Mycroft looks hungry. This has been bothering him, then. There is not much information that Mycroft cannot get his hands on, and he takes it as a personal insult when things are hidden from him. One of the few things Mummy used to say they had in common as brothers.

"All we ever heard were rumours." John looks through the window again. "Can I talk to him?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," says Mycroft immediately.

"Why?" Sherlock says at the same time. Even though they will be watching, will be able to hear it all, it curls his stomach to think of John anywhere near one of Moriarty's men, but especially one who is so close to the criminal. The nudging thought that John doesn't know what tricks they're capable of makes him tighten his grip automatically, but John does not wince. And even though Sherlock had forgotten they were still holding hands until now, he can't bring himself to let go at the reminder.

"I just... I thought I might be able to get something from him. We were both soldiers."

Mycroft says, "He was kicked out."

"I know, I heard you. But I want to do this. Give me a chance. You can go at him however you like after." John squares his shoulders, and yes there it is: his expression has changed to one of stubbornness that Sherlock is intimately acquainted with. John will not give in on this.

"Very well," Mycroft says after a succinct pause, but he looks at Sherlock as he says it. 

"John," Sherlock says. He doesn't know what else to say. 

"It'll be okay," John says quietly, soft and reassuring. He gives Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "It will only take a minute. Maybe I can something from him that will tell us where Moriarty is. That's worth it, right?" He lets go then, turns and walks over to the door. An agent opens it up only after Mycroft nods.

No, Sherlock wants to say, too late as John walks in, no, it's not.


	28. Chapter 28

Sebastian Moran is good enough that he schools his expression and deliberately does not move when John walks into the room. But that's what tells Sherlock that there is more to this than John has let on: it's the fact that Moran _doesn't_ move, doesn't give anything away, it's just too smooth. John stops about a foot into the room, in complete view of the glass, but far enough away from Moran that he would be able to make it to the door in the event that Moran tries to pull something. For his part, Moran unfolds his arms and lets his hands drop to his sides for only a moment before he hooks his thumbs into the pocket of his jeans. It's meant to be a casual move, perhaps a touch threatening, but John is not intimidated.

They wait, the silence dragging on, two men sizing each other up. Sherlock yearns to be able to see John's face, because he thinks that if he could he'd have a much better idea of what's going on. But for all that John is not a clever man, he learns fast and well and he has deliberately positioned himself with his back to Sherlock and Mycroft so that they can't see or deduce him. And for all that Sherlock _is_ a clever man, there is only so much that can be learned from the back of a man's head. He finds himself shifting with impatience and it's only Mycroft's quelling glance that has him stilling.

Finally, Moran breaks the heavy silence. "Watson."

"Moran," John returns easily enough. His voice is smooth, blandly pleasant, and that's almost as dangerous as if he'd sounded outright angry. "I'd wondered what you got up to after Afghanistan. Suppose it shouldn't surprise me in the slightest that you got mixed up with a psychopath like you have. Didn't get enough of that over there, then?"

"You know how I hate being bored," says Moran. He's got a deep voice, unique in that he has no accent whatsoever. He's been trained out of it, no doubt. The perfect pawn, Sherlock thinks, because who could ever pin something on a man with no identifying characteristics? It must drive the police absolutely mad to deal with witness statements that give them nothing to work with. So why then has Moriarty not erased his file in the army? Why leave that information lying around for anyone else to find and identify him with when so much care has been taken with everything else?

"Yes, I do remember that. You were a bloody nightmare, trying to keep you still long enough to let you heal."

"Bet you wish you'd let me die." His grin is quick and cruel.

"Yes," John says again without missing a beat, and he's completely serious. It seems to take some of the wind out of Moran's sails, and John knows it. "If I'd let you die... well, not that it matters. In the end, you'll still likely be the one wishing that you had died."

"What, are you going to torture me? That doesn't frighten me, Watson."

"I think I know that better than anyone."

Moran sucks in a quick breath and pauses, studying John. "I suppose they've sent you in to act as their little lapdog. Doesn't that ever get tiring, doing whatever Sherlock Holmes tells you to do?"

"You tell me, considering that you're describing your own life." John shifts his weight, just slight, but he suddenly seems a lot more threatening. "I always knew there wasn't something right about you, Moran. I could never place it - never had the time to, not really, not when there were dozens of soldiers who needed my attention far more than you did. But I did wonder why you were there that day. Why you were the only soldier to walk away. Because you might've needed surgery, but you would've survived without it. Then again, you always did make sure of that."

Moran's face goes cold. "What are you insinuating?"

"You know what," comes the equally quick reply. "And now you're serving Moriarty, just the same as you did over there. Only he's not quite so good to you ever since you came home, is he? If he was, they wouldn't know who you are." He jerks his head in the direction of the glass. "Moriarty left your information in your file, you know. I didn't even have to tell them your name. They already knew."

Sherlock feels a small thrill, inappropriate though it may be, because of course. Of _course_. Moriarty intended for Moran to get caught, didn't he? A distraction, perhaps, though more likely it's because Moran's become a liability and this is a simple way of disposing of him without having to deal with the fuss. He steals a lingering glance at John, wanting to stay and watch but knowing that there is something he needs to do, before he turns to his brother. "Moran's file. There must be something about Moriarty in there."

"I've been over that file a dozen times, Sherlock. There's nothing."

"Nothing you can see," Sherlock says tensely. John's implying that Moran has served Moriarty for a very long time, longer than Sherlock would have guessed, and if that's right there's going to be something. There _has_ to be something. He wonders briefly what Moriarty would have wanted with a colonel in Afghanistan. Weapons? Theft? Corruption? The possibilities are ending and chilling. Moriarty's web extends even further than he thought. "I need to look at it."

Mycroft sighs, but recognizes that there is no point in continuing to argue. "Very well. Anthea?" 

"Right this way," Anthea says. She's been lingering at the door all this time, now holding a candle of her own, and she leads Sherlock back into the hallway. He feels a chill as he passes through the doorway, and it has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the fact that this time John is not with him. He hides his discomfort by thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"I'll also look at the footage from when Moran was being captured," he says.

"When the power comes back on, I'll have it hooked up for you." As though sensing his discomfort, she holds the candle higher to prove that they are alone in the hall. There is no one else around. "It shouldn't be too much longer. Mr Holmes has qualified electricians working on the problem."

Sherlock just nods and takes the candle from her when they stop in front of a familiar room. It used to be his bedroom, this room, and his throat feels tight. He's not sure what he's expecting to find, isn't sure what it means that nothing inside has changed. It looks exactly the same as it did when he left at sixteen years old. Anthea hands him the file and, apparently not bothered by the fact that she won't be able to see her hand in front of her face, disappears back into the darkness.


	29. Chapter 29

"Moriarty left your information in your file, you know. I didn't even have to tell them your name. They already knew." John feels a quick flash of satisfaction as he says the words out loud. Just a few short minutes of interaction has told him what he already suspected: he _does_ know Moran, and quite well at that. They'd been stationed together just before John was sent home. He can clearly remember the colonel who'd been shot in the ribs; the procedure to save his life had been long and messy but relatively easy compared to some of the other surgeries they'd been forced to do. At the time, they'd considered Moran to just be a lucky son of a bitch who happened to get hit in just the right place. Now he wonders differently.

Something flickers briefly in Moran's face, a tiny crack in his facade, before his expression smoothes out. "Then he'd have done it for a reason," he says, trying - too late - to cover up the small slip. But John's already seen and he presses his advantage ruthlessly.

"You know what that means, right? Means you've become useless to him. You're no longer necessary to keep around," he says with a smirk. "It must be tiring, being so loyal to a snake like Moriarty. God only knows the sort of things he's had you do over the years, both here and over there. And for all of your loyalty, what do you get?" He takes a step closer, casually, and whispers the words with intent. "You get a death at the hands of the enemy after they've finished dragging every sorry word out of your fucking mouth. It's what you deserve, Moran, and apparently Moriarty agrees."

The exact second when Moran snaps completely can be easily pinpointed and John is ready for it. Moran moves quietly, sleek like a large jungle cat, hands a blur as he strikes out at John's midsection. John dodges the blow - sloppy and slow, he's not used to this anymore - and comes up behind Moran. He ducks the elbow meant for his head and slides his arms around Moran's waist. Instead of pushing forward or down, like Moran is anticipating, he drags the man to the side and slams him up against the wall. From there it's simple to get his arm around Moran's neck and pin him there with a knee to the spine. The breath hitches in Moran's throat and he goes still, so still, but not beaten: just waiting for a chance John does not intend to give him.

"You're a fool," he says low, directly into Moran's ear. "Trusting someone like Moriarty is a _fool's game_ , Moran. I've never met the bastard for more than an hour and even I know that. You should've known that no matter how helpful you were, sooner or later you were going to outlive your welcome." He exhales and grits his teeth when Moran gives a vicious wriggle, trying to use his excess weight to throw John off. It's more of a fight than it should be and John's shoulder burns with effort. Still, he's determined to have his say. "It's what you get for the life you've lived."

"You think you're so fucking high and mighty," Moran says, voice savage and rough with rage. "Let me tell you, Watson, I'd much rather face whatever death is waiting for me here than suffer at the hands of Moriarty. You might believe you know what that bastard's capable of, but you have no idea. The things he's got planned for your little detective friend... My only regret is that I won't be around to see it happen."

Something in John goes very cold and he tightens his arm around Moran's throat. "What do you know about Moriarty's plans for Sherlock?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Moran! Tell me!"

Moran only gives a breathless laugh, and he twists his head so that he can stare directly into John's face. His grin is wide and mocking. "The only thing I have to tell you is that you're way too late," he says.

Too late. The words resonate through John's mind as he abruptly lets go. Moran doubles over coughing, sliding to the ground without the support, and John just stares down at him. "What do you mean?" he says, the words sounding far more frantic than he wants. Suddenly furious, he punches Moran across the face. "What the fuck do you mean, you sodding bastard!"

The only response he gets is more laughter and John knows he won't be getting anything else out of him. He whirls around and sprints over to the door. "Open up, let me through!" he yells, pounding on the door. It swings open less than a minute later, but it still feels like it takes too long. Everything takes too long. He practically falls into the outer room and he's only vaguely aware of several agents slipping past him with tranquilizer guns in their hands. The only thing he cares about is Sherlock. Sherlock, who is not in the room.

"John!" Mycroft appears in front of him, gripping John's shoulders. "John, what did he say to you?"

"Where's Sherlock?" John demands, disregarding the question because oh god, _Sherlock's not here_. 

"He said he wanted to look over Moran's file. Anthea took him to his old bedroom."

"Where's that?"

"Down the hall to the right, over by the servant's quarters. John -"

John jerks away and takes off out the door. His heart is pounding so hard that he feels like he can't breathe as he turns right and runs into the darkness. He stumbles when the floors abruptly change from wood to rug and goes down hard, wrenching his ankle in the fall. He pants for breath as he lurches back to his feet, ignoring the flare of pain as he keeps limping down the hall. He doesn't know where, exactly, Sherlock's old room is. There're no signs to point the way and it's so damn dark that he can't see anything, and all he can hear is the sound of his own ragged breathing and the voices calling out to him from behind.

And then, without any warning whatsoever, the lights come on. It happens so suddenly that John nearly trips for a second time. He catches his balance just in time and sees the open door about ten feet away. He limps towards it and finds himself standing in front of a bedroom. It is definitely a child's room, the bed is barely big enough for a man John's size, never mind a fully grown Sherlock. It's also empty, except for the mobile phone lying right in the middle of the floor. John approaches it slowly, leans down to pick it up, reads the message.

_Too late, Johnny boy. I win. :D_


	30. Chapter 30

The last thing Sherlock really remembers is putting the file down on his desk and turning to survey his room. Because he hadn't seen it in some time, he'd been preoccupied with examining the once prized books that were now gathering dust on his old shelves. Foolishly, he'd let his guard down. His room had always been a place where he was safe. Even when he was younger, his family, with the sole exception of his mother, rarely bothered to come in even with permission. He hadn't been anticipating the blow to the back of his head and, as a result, had done nothing to protect himself from it.

There is a car rumbling beneath him, the wheels driving on what must be smooth pavement, and with each jolt his head throbs with fresh pain that is both surprising and worrying in its intensity. He blinks up a dark ceiling, realizing that the light filtering in through the tinted windows is bright enough to be from the sun. He's been out for at least two hours, then, which means he could potentially be two hours away from the estate. He pretends that news doesn't make his stomach tighten uncomfortably and glances around.

Anthea sits on the seat across from him. At first he thinks that she's been forced along, another kidnap victim (and that word is bitter even in his mind), but then the slow fogginess starts to dissipate and he sees the truth. She's relaxed in a way that she never is around Mycroft, her shoulders slumped back against the comfortably plush seat and her shoes missing, hair unbound and jacket disregarded. She's still got her Blackberry, but for the first time ever she's not paying attention it. The screen is tilted away from him so he can't be sure, but he suspects that it's been turned off. She's watching him instead, and when she sees that he's awake her painted lips curve into a smile.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," she says lightly, as though she's just happened to stumble into his flat while he was having a kip on the sofa. 

Sherlock wants to say something cutting, but if he opens his mouth something far worse than words is going to come out. Anthea knows it, too, because her nose wrinkles a little bit. She reaches into her purse and rummages around for a few seconds before coming up with a plain white pill that looks a little like an aspirin. She offers it to him with a raised eyebrow, but after a few seconds have gone by and Sherlock's made no move to take it she shrugs and throws it back into her purse.

"Your loss. If you want to face Moriarty with a headache bad enough to incapacitate you, that's your choice. Of course, it wouldn't really make a difference even if you _were_ thinking clearly, so maybe it's better for your pride if you don't." She gives him a mean little smile.

"Mycroft will know," Sherlock says finally, swallowing heavily. He's lying down across the seat and he'd like to sit up, but the car swims dizzily and his head aches unbearably when he tries. Refusing to give in, he grabs hold of the back of the seat and drags his body into a seated position. Even when he has to lean against the window because he can't balance on his own, it's better than before.

"I imagine they all know by now. Moriarty directed me to leave them a little message, and as soon as we were gone the electricity came back on so there's no doubt in my mind someone's found it by now. Of course, it's not going to do them any good." Anthea shrugs, just once, and tilts her chin up. "I've found someone much better to work for. Someone who actually appreciates the work I do."

"You call that appreciating?" he says. "Did you not see what happened to the last man who was _appreciated_ by Moriarty?"

"Moran outlived his usefulness. Shame, but it happens. Me, on the other hand." Her grin is wicked and razor sharp. "I've got loads of things under my cap that Moriarty hasn't even started to think about. I'll be set for a long time, Mr Holmes, don't you worry about me."

He looks out the window in lieu of a response. They're driving on a highway that stretches endlessly in both directions. Green on either side, no landmarks to suggest where they might be headed, and for the first time fear curls jagged in his belly. He can't help remembering what Moriarty has said about their next meeting, about what he wants to do and how he wants to do it. The thought is enough to make him feel even more nauseous than before. 

John must be going nuts right about now. Good, faithful friend that he is, he'll be furious for having left Sherlock alone long enough to go into the room with Moran. Not that it was John's fault. Moriarty is determined enough that he would have found a way to get at Sherlock somehow. It just doesn't help that they all just walked right into a trap, made it so easy. Lestrade laid up at the hospital, Mycroft and John distracted, electricity off - it was the perfect set-up, like something right out of an old-fashioned detective novel, and Sherlock hadn't thought to question it even _once_. He closes his eyes in disgust.

"Where are we going?" he asks finally.

"I'm not allowed to tell you that," Anthea says, and he knows that what she really means is that even she doesn't know. It probably bothers her at least a little. Mycroft, for all that his brother can be closed mouth about so many things, had placed a surprising amount of trust in his assistant. There is very little that Anthea didn't know. So it must rankle her, having to prove herself to Moriarty, and Sherlock knows that there will be a way to use that if he just keeps quiet and waits for his chance.

Anthea continues to stare at him, like she's waiting for him to ask another question. But Sherlock has nothing more to ask, not when the likelihood of getting a helpful answer is slim. He just keeps looking out the window, avoiding her gaze, and so he sees the moment when they begin to approach a small town. The population is probably no bigger than a couple thousand people, and everything has that quaint, old-fashioned feel that the tourists tend to go positively mad for.

It is the perfect place for a psychotic consulting criminal to hide.


	31. Chapter 31

As they drive into the village, Sherlock feels his heart beginning to pick up speed. It leaves him breathless. He tries to disregard the automatic reaction caused by anticipated proximity to Moriarty, but judging by the way Anthea's knowing gaze flicks over him he's not doing a spectacular job. He ignores her as the car rolls to a stop in front of a plain little home. There's a garden out front, filled with flowers and vegetables, as well as a white picket fence. It looks like the sort of place that Mrs Hudson might retire to when she finally gets tired of 221 Baker Street. The fact that the front door opens and lets loose a deluge of men in black suits and sunglasses is jarring, like one of those pictures his mother used to show him where she'd ask him to pick out what didn't fit in.

One of the men steps forward and jerks the car door open sharply. Anthea slides across the seat without prompting and sticks one slender, bare foot out. The man gives her leg a blatantly appreciative look and then backs off just enough to let her put her foot down on the pavement. He extends a hand to her and Anthea takes it, allows him to pull her out of the car and to her feet. He puts his other hand on the small of her back and gently ushers her out of the way, allowing another man to step up and reach in. Sherlock does not fight against the rough hands that jerk him out of the car and set him on none too gently on his feet. His legs threaten to buckle, but he grits his teeth and locks his knees. 

"In," says the man beside Anthea. "Before he does anything to try and get someone's attention. Oh, and before I forget -" He plucks Anthea's Blackberry out of her fingers and drops it on the ground, lifts one leg and stomps on it. Anthea's breath catches and her eyes go wide, but she doesn't make a sound as the man keeps on stomping until all that's left are tiny, smashed fragments of glass and metal.

Moriarty is waiting for them inside. He's seated in front of the lit fireplace sipping from a glass of white wine. There is another glass waiting on top of the mantelpiece, and Anthea walks across the room and picks it up. She doesn't drink from it, though, just holds it loosely in the curl of her fingers like she needs to hold onto _something_ without her phone. The men hustle Sherlock in and force him to his knees in front of the fireplace. Moriarty tips his head and makes a soft sound in the back of his throat; both of them back off and leave Sherlock where he is.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Moriarty says softly, tasting the word with a perverted curl of his tongue. "I told you that Daddy would see you again, didn't I? And yet you didn't believe me. How little faith you have in me, darling. It's really quite a pity. And sweet Anthea..." He extends a hand, which Anthea takes. "You've been a very good girl. I'll have to think of an adequate reward for you."

"I want a new phone," Anthea says, letting her lips curl into a childish pout. "One of your mean men broke my last one."

It's the most vapid thing Sherlock has ever heard Anthea say. He can't help lifting his head to stare at her in surprised revulsion. She's worked hard to get to where she is; not many women can say that they're the assistant to the British government. And she's done it all on her own merit. She was an unappreciated assistant for some idiotic little worker until the day that Mycroft ran into her at a party. He noticed her redeeming qualities immediately: her intelligence, her capacity for retention, her thirst for knowledge, her talent with electronics of any kind, all of it hidden behind a lovely face and pleasing voice. It hadn't taken long before Mycroft had taken her for himself - possibly in more ways than just the one, if Sherlock's deductions are correct. 

"Don't worry. Daddy will buy you a new one, a much better one," he says, and Anthea actually giggles as she turns and sits down on Moriarty's lap. She's relatively petite, as far as women go, and so she fits quite nicely. Moriarty certainly seems to think so, judging by the leer on his face, and now Sherlock really feels ill as Moriarty spreads his thighs and lets the curve of her bottom settle down in between.

"The best one?" Anthea asks, blinking her lashes.

"The very best. But Daddy might have an even better reward for you than that." Moriarty looks over at Sherlock and smirks. "How would you feel if you had the opportunity to have an in-depth examination at how the Holmes brothers really differ?" His tone of voice makes what he's referring to obvious.

"Oh, I'd like that." Her response is immediate, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. "Mr Holmes was always sort of boring in those matters. It was the same old thing every time. It does get tedious. I'd love to have the chance to see how his little brother measures up." She sets the glass of wine aside, brings her fingers up and starts undoing the buttons on her blouse. The fabric gapes open to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of a lacy black bra. Some of the men in the room shift and Sherlock glares at them. Moriarty chuckles.

"You may leave us," he says with a little wave of his hand.

It's clear none of the men are too pleased about the command, but one by one they all leave until Sherlock, Moriarty and Anthea are alone. Moriarty slides a hand up into Anthea's hair and pulls her head around, takes her into a messy, possessive kiss. The memory of those lips makes Sherlock want to heave, but Anthea seems to enjoy it. She lets out a little moan and wriggles enthusiastically against him, grinding her pert little arse against his groin. The hand in her hair tightens and Moriarty groans, long and deep.

Nearly loud enough to mask Anthea's stifled gasp of pain.

Her body goes rigid and Moriarty laughs, sliding the dagger out from between her ribs and holding it up for Sherlock to see the blood-stained metal. "They all think they can put one over me," he says, rising to his feet and dumping Anthea's body on the floor, "but they always forget that in the end, I see through everything. And now, Sherlock, you're all mine."


	32. Chapter 32

From the day that they met, John has always kind of wanted to punch Mycroft Holmes in the face. After all, the man is a proven bastard. He kidnapped John because he wanted him to spy on Sherlock, he loves to play games, and saying he can be creepy is an understatement. It both surprises and saddens John to learn that punching Mycroft in the face is not nearly as satisfying as he always believed it would be. As he steps back and automatically flexes the fingers on his now aching left hand, he can't decide if that's because Sherlock isn't here to see it or if it's because Mycroft saw the punch coming and didn't do a thing to stop it. Is, even now, waving aside the guards that are trying to converge on John.

"Don't," he says, voice muffled because of the hand he's got pressed against his nose. Blood is streaming through his fingers and John watches for a moment, waiting for Anthea to appear with a handkerchief, before it occurs to him that she's not coming. His doctor's training kicks in and he steps closer, pushing Mycroft back into the chair just behind him. Mycroft goes willingly, apparently trusting that John has done all the harm he's going to do, and pulls his hand away for John to inspect the damage.

"You're such a bastard," John mutters, tilting Mycroft's head up roughly. The flesh underneath his eyes is already starting to swell and he'll have a lovely set of black eyes by the time all is said and done. His nose is a little crooked and clearly sensitive to the touch judging by the way that Mycroft tenses, but it's not broken. John is better at pulling his punches than everyone thinks he is.

"I know," Mycroft says, and he reaches up and grips John's wrist lightly. "John, I knew that Moran was a decoy."

"You _what_?!"

"I knew that Moriarty was around. I knew that he was going to try to kidnap Sherlock."

"And you let it happen?" One punch doesn't seem to be enough, suddenly. It takes every ounce of control that John possesses to not punch him again, and it's not because of the bodyguard that stirs warningly when John goes tense all over. He wants to know the full details first. He glares down at Mycroft, taking full advantage of the fact that for once he is the taller of the two. "What. The fuck. Do you mean."

Mycroft sighs and closes his eyes briefly. He looks a lot older than a man in his early forties when he glances up at John again. "Moriarty has been circling around Sherlock for weeks now. In spite of my best efforts, we haven't been able to catch him. I had hoped that he might have given up entirely and left the country, but I suspected we wouldn't be that fortunate. And when my men were able to capture Moran after Lestrade's unfortunate shooting, I knew for certain that he was still here. He's been waiting for the right moment. Until now, you've been the one thing keeping Moriarty away. He wants Sherlock, and only Sherlock, and he wants to prove that he can take him out from under our noses. You were just too good at always being there."

"So you distracted me," John says, his stomach clenching with fresh horror. It was against his instinct to go into that cage to speak to Moran, but he'd done it because he thought it was necessary. It's fucking appalling to know that once again, he's played right into someone's plans. "Tell me why, Mycroft. Why would you let that little snake take Sherlock? You know what he did! You know what he wants to do. I thought you were trying to protect your brother!"

"I am!" Mycroft's expression goes tight with his anger, but he remains seated and puts his hands up. "John, there is no one who wants to protect Sherlock more than I do. I told you, we couldn't catch Moriarty."

And then John understands. If possible, it makes him even angrier. "You decided to use Sherlock as bait," he says hollowly. 

"Yes."

"You -" John turns away. He has to. He really has to, or he's going to go a step further than a punch and seize the nearest gun to shoot Mycroft in the face. He can't ever remember being this furious with someone other than Jim Moriarty. 

"John, it was the most effective plan I could come up with. We needed Sherlock to be taken to him. Moriarty didn't come here, he sent guards. Guards that were prepared to remain silent under even the best of our interrogation techniques. We wouldn't be able to get anything from them and Moriarty would only have tried again. This way, we have a good idea of where Sherlock is. We can find him, John, I swear."

"And if Moriarty rapes him again in the meantime?" The words taste like ashes on John's tongue and he has to force himself to say them. Because he can still remember the sheer terror in Sherlock's eyes as he confessed what Moriarty had done to him, the look on his face when he tried to fall asleep and couldn't because he was worried that Moriarty might come for him again, the way his voice had trembled when he spoke to Lestrade about everything. 

If Moriarty touches him again, John does not know what will be left over. 

He looks back at Mycroft because he wants to know what the answer will be. Mycroft meets his gaze squarely and what John sees there makes him feel sick. "That's an acceptable risk to you, isn't it?" he says softly. "You realized that might happen... and you still let him take Sherlock."

"John -"

"Shut up," John says tersely. If Mycroft says one more thing, he won't be held responsible for his actions. "Just - fucking shut up. We're going to find Sherlock. Right now. And I swear to god, Mycroft Holmes, if Moriarty has done anything - and I mean _anything_ \- to Sherlock, you're going to regret it." He can't even bring himself to say what will happen if Sherlock's dead. He can't even think it.

Mycroft swallows, but fortunately for him he seems to realize that John has been pushed to his breaking point and maintains his silence. He just stands up and leads the way out of the room. John follows right behind him, pausing only long enough to accept the gun that one of the guards gives him. In the car, seated across from Mycroft and surrounded by a contingent of guards in black body armour, his hands are calm and without tremor as he methodically checks it over, making sure that it contains bullets.

One of them is specially reserved.


	33. Chapter 33

The smell of Anthea's blood is thick and heavy, coating the back of Sherlock's tongue. He scrambles backwards at the first step Moriarty takes towards him, hand groping around instinctively for some sort of weapon. But there is nothing. He glances around the room and realizes, belatedly, that is has been stripped of anything he might find useful: literally, the only furniture in the room is the chair Moriarty was sitting in and the stand he had the wine glasses on. The only visible weapon is the knife that Moriarty holds. But there is also the wine glass, and glass can be just as sharp as a knife. All Sherlock has to do is bide his time. He draws himself up and stares at Moriarty silently.

Moriarty chuckles. "Oh now, dear one, don't make that sort of face at me. If you're trying to put me off, you're not really doing a very good job." He brings the knife up to his face and licks at the blood, his tongue coated red when he pulls it back into his mouth, and smirks. "I've been waiting for the chance to get my hands on you, Sherlock. I knew that it would be worthwhile, but that doesn't mean it was easy. I mean, every time I saw you all I could think about was how beautiful you were last time." His face is hungry. "I want to put my hands on you. I want to touch you. I want to _fuck_ you."

"That's never going to happen," Sherlock says. The words are enough to cause a chill to run down his spine in spite of the heat in the room. He eyes the glass behind Moriarty without making it too obvious, calculating the exact amount of time he'll have before Moriarty reacts versus the distance he has to go before he can get to the glass. It will only take a second to break it and grab a shard large enough to do harm.

"That's what I like about you," Moriarty says. "You never give up hope."

And then he pounces. Literally. He jumps on top of Sherlock and sends them both crashing to the ground. All of the breath gets knocked out of Sherlock from the unexpected landing and the heavy weight on top of him, but that doesn't stop him from fighting. He punches Moriarty in the face and twists, desperate to get out from underneath him. Moriarty, the fucker, just laughs and laughs like this is all some game to him, like getting punched and kicked is the highlight of his evening. Maybe it is, Sherlock really does not want to do a close analysis of Moriarty's sexual kinks. Not now, not ever. He nails Moriarty in the belly with his knees and wrenches to the side and manages to slide out from underneath him, lurching to his feet.

The knife hurts when it slices through his ankle, hot and angry, and his leg buckles beneath his weight as the agony shoots up his thigh. Moriarty slashes at his other ankle and that nearly brings Sherlock to his knees before he stiffens, intent on ignoring the pain. But the split second pause is all that Moriarty really needs: he throws his shoulder into Sherlock's knees and topples him to the ground, has a pair of handcuffs snapped around Sherlock's wrists before Sherlock even registers he's no longer standing. For a moment, the two of them remain exactly where they are. Sherlock is gasping for breath and Moriarty is leaning over him, and then Moriarty starts to laugh again.

"You're such a fighter," he gushes, dangling the knife from the tips of his fingers. He looks at the fresh blood staining the metal with a maniacal grin. "It's wonderful, really. Most people in your position would just give up, you know. No one has ever fought me as hard or as long as you do, sweetheart, and I find it delightful. Every time I get bored you do something new." He reaches out, slides his hand into Sherlock's hair, and grips tight. He wrenches Sherlock's head up and chuckles low. "Did you think I'm stupid, Sherlock? I created those handcuffs just for you. You'll never get them off. And if you keep trying, I won't hesitate to cut your fingers off. Beautiful as they are, you can still do quite a lot without them."

Sherlock swallows, goes limp as sticky breath that smells of blood and wine washes over his face. "I know what you're planning," he says as steadily as he can. "Mycroft will not give you anything in exchange for me."

"That is so last year," says Moriarty. "I don't need anything from your brother. I can get what I want regardless of whether Mycroft interferes or not. Really, I'd prefer that he didn't. What I want, Sherlock, is you." He slides his hand up Sherlock's thigh, fingertips brushing across his crotch. "Maybe this time I'll be able to take my time, hmm? I always regretted not having the chance to explore a little more. As fantastic as your cock felt in me, I'd love to see what your face looks like when I'm inside you for the first time. I bet you'll be so tight."

He leans down, mouth so close that his lips brush against Sherlock's throat with every word. "Your little pet did one thing right. He kept you nice and safe for me. Forced me to act a little sooner than I would have liked, though. I know what adrenaline does to a man, you'd have gone home and fucked that pet even stupider than he already is. And I just couldn't have that. You're mine, Sherlock, and I'm going to be the only one you'll think about. Maybe I'll let them watch. Would you like that?" He smirks, quick and cruel. "I've got a camera I bet you'd look lovely on. I could tie you down and send them a video of how you look when you're gagging for it."

Each word makes the feeling of nausea that much stronger. Sherlock wants to vomit, holds it back because he refuses to let Moriarty see what kind of reaction he's inciting, and says, "They will find me. I will get away from you and your whole web will be torn apart."

"Oh Sherlock. I'd love to see you try." Moriarty pulls tighter and crushes their mouths together in a bruising kiss. He forces Sherlock's mouth open with a hand to his jaw, fingers digging into the joints painfully. Their teeth click together and Sherlock bites, hard, the taste of copper even thicker now when Moriarty jerks away. Instead of looking angry, though, he looks amused. "You're so much fun," he says, and then he backhands Sherlock hard across the face. " _This_ will be fun."


	34. Chapter 34

The feel of cool fingers tipping down the front of his shirt makes Sherlock freeze even though his brain is screaming at him to resist, to react, to do something. Last time this happened he was blindfolded, but this time his eyes are very much open and Moriarty will be able to see if he shuts them. It's a concession he's not willing to give into, not yet, so he forces himself to watch as Moriarty begins to unbutton his shirt with deliberate slowness. He pauses before he slips each button through, catching Sherlock's gaze with a sickening grin as he parts the fabric to reveal pale flesh.

"You're just as pretty as I remember," he murmurs, ducking his head down to flatten his tongue against a nipple. The resulting flood of disgust is more than enough to tamper down any spark of arousal, but Sherlock knows that won't last long. He needs to get out of here, and quickly, before it gets far enough that he can't.

His legs are trapped, but only by Moriarty's thighs. Sherlock glances down, over Moriarty's head, and knows he'll only get one chance so he's got to make it a good one. His heart is pounding painfully fast and he suspects that Moriarty can feel it, probably attributes it to something entirely different than anger. He remains quiet under Moriarty's attention to his nipples, not even reacting when the bastard begins to bite. And it's not a gentle nibble, either, it stings enough that Sherlock can't help grimacing. 

"Does that feel good?" Moriarty asks smugly, one hand cupping the juncture of his thighs. His penis is still flaccid, completely uninterested in what's going on, but Moriarty is not deterred. He just hums loudly and bends down again, trailing his tongue lazily across Sherlock's chest. He moves a bit higher towards his throat, clamping his teeth down hard on a bit of flesh unexpectedly, and Sherlock jerks with an unintentional whimper. Moriarty groans loudly, rocking against him, and Sherlock seizes his chance.

He pushes himself up with his elbow and slams his chin down against Moriarty's head. The impact rattles him, he hits so hard, and for a moment things get a little fuzzy and he hears the sound of glass shattering. Then Moriarty gives a weird little moan and slumps against him, the sudden weight so heavy that it leaves him breathless. He blinks his eyes open and sees Anthea slumped beside him, one hand resting against her blood-soaked waist. There is glass scattered all over the floor, on Moriarty's clothing and in Sherlock's hair, along with the remnants of wine.

"You hit him with the wineglass?" he says, raising an eyebrow in an effort to hide how shaky he feels. Out of all the ways to use that particular weapon, that's not the venue he would have chosen. Too much risk. Not many people can knock someone out with just one strike, though granted Anthea is hardly anyone. 

Anthea looks down at him with a smirk. "Worked, didn't it?" she says. "Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Yes." No. But he's hardly going to tell her that, not when he's still wrapping his mind around the fact that apparently she hasn't betrayed Mycroft after all. Anthea is a superb actress and she'd fooled him easily - though in his defence, he'd been a little preoccupied with the fact that he'd just been turned over to his worst enemy for another potential molestation. He gives her a flat look, hoping that she can't tell how hard his heart is beating. He feels dizzy, his hands trembling against his will.

"I'll bet you are," she mutters, something dark in her eyes when she grips Moriarty by the shoulder and flips him over. His body lands heavily on the floor and Sherlock takes in a deep, stuttered breath. "It's okay," she adds, voice soft, and crawls closer to him. She seems to sense that he would rather not be touched and makes no move to do so. "Or it will be. I don't have the resources to get us out of here. There are about fifty guards surrounding this house right now, just waiting for Moriarty to give the word that something's gone wrong in here. So we're going to have to sit tight until Mr Holmes arrives. It shouldn't be long, though."

"He was following us," Sherlock says numbly.

"Through my mobile, yes.." Anthea nods. "Roll over, I'll try to get your cuffs off." Her fingers touch him at last, sliding around his wrists, and he holds back the shudder. She says, "You remember they smashed my phone, but that won't have mattered. Too little too late, I'll wager that if Moriarty knew I had my phone when we got here he'd have moved us instantly. Fortunately for us, hired help is never quite as loyal as you think. Much as this idiot likes to think he knows everything, he really doesn't."

"He knew about you," he points out, keeping his eyes on Moriarty's unconscious form. They might not have long until he wakes up. Anthea hadn't hit him that hard. If he does, they won't get a second opportunity. "You should bind and gag him with something."

"I was hoping to use these cuffs, but... the fucker was right, they'd take a lot more time to pick through than we have." She sighs and pulls away, crawls on her hands and knees over to Moriarty's body. Even though she does a thorough search, she fails to yield a key. "Damn. I'll have to make do, I guess." She crawls back to the chair, fetching the shirt she'd taken off earlier, and then returns to Moriarty. She rips the shirt with her teeth and nails, creating make-shift tethers with which she uses to tie his hands and feet. From what Sherlock can see, she has a smirk on her face as she makes the bonds extra tight.

"Take the knife," he says, "and cut up a part of his shirt to use as a gag." He'd offer the use of his own shirt when it comes to shutting Jim Moriarty up any day, but not right now. Not when his flesh is still crawling. He wants - needs - to be as clothed as possible.

The knife is right next to Sherlock, having fallen out of Moriarty's hands, and Anthea scoops it up. She takes to Moriarty's shirt with relish, slicing through the material and forcing his mouth open to push a wad inside. Sherlock thinks about pointing out the ease with which someone could suffocate from that sort of a gag, but decides against it just as quickly. He watches in silence as Anthea wraps another bolt of fabric around Moriarty's head to keep him from spitting the gag out. If Moriarty dies, it will be no loss.


	35. Chapter 35

It takes about an hour of solid working before Anthea manages to unlock the handcuffs. By then the flesh around Sherlock's wrists is bruised and hurts terribly. Cliché though it may be, he can't help rubbing at the raw skin when he's finally free. Anthea gives him a moment when she turns away to snap the cuffs around Moriarty's wrists. He hasn't stirred yet, which gives Sherlock cause to wonder just how hard she struck him. Perhaps hard enough to cause irreparable brain damage. The human skull can be extremely fragile if struck in just the right spot; one little tap can be enough to cause death. He knows Moriarty's not dead, not yet, but damaged? It's fun to ponder.

"Alright?" Anthea says, tucking a dark curl behind her ear as she straightens up. She looks tired now. The cloth she's tied around her ribs to stem bleeding is soaked with blood. "It shouldn't be too much longer before Mr Holmes and your friend arrives. I estimated that they would be ninety minutes behind us, and we're nearly there now. The hard part will be getting out of here."

"The guards," Sherlock says. He remembers. He finds himself looking at the knife. Anthea set it down well out of reach of Moriarty just in case, and he can't resist picking it up. The blade is wickedly sharp. It would split flesh with barely any pressure. His mind offers up plenty of possibilities for what Moriarty might have been planning to do, each more terrible and wicked than the last, and he turns to look at the unconscious man. His fingers tighten around the handle of the knife. It would be so easy.

"Go ahead." Because of course Anthea catches him looking, knows what he wants.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"No one would blame you, Sherlock. Believe me. After what he's done, the millions of people he's killed and tormented, for what he did to you, prison is too good for him." She catches his eye and Sherlock can't look away. "I'll be frank with you. There's information that Moriarty has which would be a bonus for us to possess. It could change the world and help us lock a lot of people away. But. The thing is, people like him, you never get anything for free. Furthermore he's obsessed with you, and he'll always be a danger to you for as long as he lives." And she holds a hand out, and she says, "If you want me to kill him, I will."

He's never killed anyone before. Not once, not in all of his cases. He's fought with people, nearly been killed himself, but somehow Lestrade or John has always arrived before that last step needed to be taken. If he waits, Sherlock knows that John will come - and John will kill Moriarty. But this isn't John's fight. It's his. He glances down at the knife before standing up shakily, his legs trembling beneath his weight. It's a struggle to make it over to Moriarty, his head still aching with every step he takes, and he sinks heavily to his knees. He watches the unconscious, slack face for a minute, remembering their last encounter. How disgusted he'd felt. How terrified he'd been for weeks after. How he couldn't sleep, couldn't do anything, without feeling like Moriarty was watching.

He lifts the knife, hovering over Moriarty's chest.

He can't.

Anthea's fingers close over his, smooth and warm, and lift the knife from his hand. She waits for just a few seconds, as though giving one last chance for him to speak. When he fails to say anything to stop her, she nods just once. Her hair tangled around her face, mouth set in a hard line, she brings the blade of the knife to Moriarty's throat and presses down. Blood bubbles up around the wound as she draws the knife quickly across the slant of his neck, but he still sees the flash of organs. He watches. Mesmerized, as Moriarty sputters and chokes and dies without ever opening his eyes. It doesn't take long at all.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," she says quietly, leaning back on her heels. The pool of blood is growing quickly, but she doesn't seem to care. "He'll never bother you or anyone else again."

He can't speak, can't even look at her, but manages a nod. They sit there in silence for a long time - he doesn't know how much time passes, but it's significant - before they hear the sounds of shouting outside. Anthea gets up and walks over to the door, holding the knife down at her side. Anyone who walks in will be met by a sight that's daunting indeed: she may be petite, but wearing only a skirt and bra and blood with a knife in hand she looks formidable. She sets her feet and stares at the door with intent, because nothing is getting past her, and in spite of himself Sherlock feels as safe as though John were in the room with him. 

Everything goes quiet after several long minutes of gunshots and fighting. Then someone knocks at the door. Pauses. Knocks again. Another pause. Anthea listens to the knocks carefully, and when they're finished she lets out a sigh and reaches for the knob. "About time."

"I am sorry, my dear, traffic was just terrible," Mycroft says. He looks awful, face worn and pale, but some of the tightness falls away when he spots Sherlock over her head. His eyes scan the two of them quickly, looking for damage. "You're not hurt?"

"I'll be okay," she says, free hand ghosting over her ribs. "Moriarty's no longer a problem."

Mycroft glances at the body. His lips twitch as though he might laugh. "I can see that. In here, John."

John. Sherlock looks away from Moriarty's body for the first time since he died. He doesn't know what to think or how to feel when John appears in the doorway, but John takes one look at him and his whole body sags with relief. "Sherlock," he breathes, stumbling as he rushes over. He stops short when he sees Moriarty, eyes widening slightly, before he disregards the man as unimportant and returns his attention to Sherlock, looking horrified. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck did he do to you?"

"He tried to molest Mr Holmes," Anthea says. "We took care of it."

Something about the almost flippant way she says that strikes Sherlock as funny and he lets out a little laugh. Worry flashes across John's face as he kneels down, hands reaching towards Sherlock. And suddenly, quite without permission from Sherlock's mind, he finds himself clinging to John and gulping back tears. Hoarse sobs cause his throat to ache no matter how hard he tries to stop and he starts to shake so hard that he holds on even tighter. John doesn't say a word, just wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and hugs him.


	36. Chapter 36

It is safe to say that the ride to where Sherlock is being kept is the longest one of John's life. He spends most of it staring out the window, the gun a comforting weight in his hands, trying not to think about what might be happening to Sherlock at this very moment. It seems to take an age before they're pulling up outside of a small town, so quaint and picturesque that he never would have imagined it's actually the hiding place of a known psychopath. The car glides to a stop and the doors swing open, but when John goes to climb out Mycroft stops him.

"I just want to remind you that Sherlock needs to be your priority," Mycroft says quietly. 

"You don't need to tell me that," John snaps, pushing the umbrella aside and clambering out. It annoys him to see how gracefully Mycroft follows, but he pushes that aside in favour of looking around at all of the assembled men and women. Every single one of them is heavily armed, but that doesn't make him feel any better. It only serves to remind him that Sherlock is in a very dangerous position.

One of the women glances over at Mycroft, waiting until he gives a nod. She then turns towards the crowd and begins making silent hand gestures towards the houses. They split up into several small groups and move out. John finds himself falling in besides Mycroft, heading towards the centre of the town. Maddening though it may be to stand here and wait when he really wants to be out there searching, he forces himself to stand still. Mycroft's right, his focus needs to be on Sherlock. Anything else can wait.

It doesn't take all that long for the sounds of fighting to reach them. John breaks into a run, dodging brawls, and is only vaguely aware of Mycroft following. The woman from before appears suddenly in front of him and directs them both into a fairly non-descript little cabin with a grim nod. He changes direction, bursting into the house and finding that the numerous guards have already been taken care of. Mycroft comes in behind him and charges straight over to a door on the fair side of the wall; he starts knocking with the handle of his umbrella, pausing and knocking again, and then the door opens. 

Seeing Sherlock again, whole and, for the most part, unharmed, causes such a wave of relief that John feels dizzy from the force of it. Hearing Sherlock start to cry, though, is enough to break his heart. He holds onto Sherlock as tightly as he dares, anger and guilt making a tight ball in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock never should have had to deal with any of this and he definitely should not have had to do it alone. How much harder have they made it for him with their assumptions and blaming? It's a wonder he hasn't broken down long before now.

He smoothes the hair back from Sherlock's forehead with a trembling hand and whispers soothingly to him, even though he knows that the words probably won't have much impact, if any. Sherlock continues to tremble with sobs, his face pressed against John's chest. The occasional soft whimper escapes him and it's horrifying to listen to. Even the sight of Moriarty's corpse does little to assuage his anger, particularly when he learns that Anthea and Sherlock were the ones to kill him. Sherlock shouldn't have had to do that, either.

"John," Mycroft says after several minutes of quiet murmuring with Anthea. Only once she's been sent out the door, likely into the hands of paramedics, does he approach. He looks old, now, and uncertain, and maybe that's just a trick of the light but John doesn't think so. "Can you get him to stand? Paramedics are waiting out front. I thought it best for them not to come in; I didn't think Sherlock would handle strangers in an enclosed space all that well."

"I'll try," John says, because Mycroft's probably right. He gazes down at Sherlock, at this proud, vain man who has been reduced to this, and swallows hard before speaking in the gentlest voice he can muster. "Sherlock, love, did you hear what your brother said? There's some paramedics outside waiting to check you over and make sure that you're not hurt. Do you think we could go out and talk to them?"

Sherlock shakes his head and clings that much tighter, his fingers digging in so deeply that the fabric of John's coat threatens to rip. John sighs and strokes his head again. He knows that Sherlock probably doesn't want anyone to see him in this condition; it's bad enough that Mycroft is in the room. "Can you give us a minute?" he says without looking at Mycroft, jerking his head towards the door. "And for god's sake, someone cover that bastard up."

"Of course." Already turning towards the door, Mycroft steps into the room beyond and says something unintelligible to those gathered outside. A moment later, a young man enters with a blanket. He spreads it carefully across Moriarty's body, shielding the grisly sight from view, before he retreats. The door is shut behind him.

John takes a few seconds to enjoy the silence before he says, "He's gone, Sherlock. It's okay now."

"John."

Sherlock's voice sounds shaky, not at all himself, but it's the first word he's spoken and John takes it as an accomplishment. "I'm right here. Moriarty's dead and he can't hurt you anymore. We'll get you out of here just as soon as you feel up to moving, alright?"

"... No hospitals."

"Alright, fine," John agrees, possibly too quickly but at this point he's willing to give Sherlock whatever he wants. It's a relief to see Sherlock sit up slightly, not letting go but leaning back just far enough so that John can see his face. He looks dreadful, eyes rimmed in red and cheeks streaked with tears. John can't resist brushing the fringe out of his eyes and Sherlock blinks up at him.

"I thought you were -" he starts, and then stops.

"I know, but I'm really here and I'm not going anywhere." He examines Sherlock as closely as he can, noting the blood drying in the dark curls and the bruising on Sherlock's face. His wrists are bruised and raw and he suspects Sherlock's ankles look the same way. Fortunately, there doesn't appear to be any damage significant enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. But the only way they'll know is for Sherlock to be checked out. "You think you could let the paramedics have a look at you?"

Sherlock hesitates before responding, and the fear that flickers briefly across his face makes John want to punch something. "I'll be right there with you," he adds, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I won't go anywhere."

And finally, Sherlock gives a little nod.


	37. Chapter 37

He doesn't like it when the paramedics come too close, and John warns them all off repeatedly before Mycroft steps in and elects one, a woman, to be the one who attends to Sherlock. She has a friendly smile and she keeps her distance, her touch remaining both professional and scant as she examines the back of his head and then his wrists and ankles. In spite of that, Sherlock remains tense the entire time and only relaxes when she takes a couple of large steps back.

"You should be alright. You've had a nasty knock on the head, but I'm told your flatmate is a doctor so I don't think it'll be necessary for you to go to the hospital. I would like to bandage those cuts on your ankles, though, if that's alright. There's a chance they could become infected if I don't."

"That's fine," Sherlock says shortly. He'd almost forgot about the wounds until now, but the reminder makes the sharp sting that much more prevalent. Fortunately she's quick about her work, washing out the cuts before smearing them with a salve and then bandaging them carefully, all the while touching him as little as possible. When she's done, she gives him another quick smile before retreating entirely. 

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?" John asks quietly. 

"No. I want to go home." It surprises him, how much he wants to see Baker Street again. Over the past few weeks, it is the only place where he has felt even a little safe. His throat tightens with panic at the thought of having to spend a night in the hospital, surrounded by unfamiliar people who could easily be under the employ of Moriarty. It will take Mycroft months, maybe years, to ferret out everyone who worked for him: until then, no one except for John and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Molly can be trusted.

"Shh, it's alright. I only wanted to make sure." John's hand strokes gently through his hair, mindful of the knot and swelling, and Sherlock tries to stop the trembling that he wasn't even aware had begun. Thoughts of the hospital have reminded him, though, and he turns to John and takes hold of his jumper.

"Lestrade?"

John's face registers surprise at first, and then it goes soft in a way that makes Sherlock's stomach ache. "I haven't heard from Molly in a while," he admits. "To be honest, with everything that's happened I pretty much forgot all about him. Molly might have tried to call, but she probably wouldn't have got through. Since we're just going home, why don't I call her and see how he's making out?" As he talks, he takes his phone from his pocket and punches in Molly's number. He turns away slightly, facing the opposite direction, but not so far that he can't keep Sherlock in his peripheral vision.

Mycroft approaches again, no umbrella in sight, and stops just far enough away to make Sherlock glance at him. In that one look, he can deduce the finer details of Mycroft's plan that he was not made aware of until now. Insinuating Anthea into Moriarty's trust. Setting John up to be distracted by Moran, thus giving Sherlock the opportunity to slip off on his own. Making sure that Moriarty would have the opportunity to take Sherlock. He knows that Mycroft would have been depending on things to work out for the best, just like he knows how very easily the whole situation could have gone sideways. His mind immediately provides him with a lengthy list in which things could have gone wrong, including Anthea dying for real and Moriarty moving him to another location before Mycroft and John arrived. It's terrifying to contemplate, but then part of what makes Mycroft so good at what he does is the ability to take chances when necessary.

"You must be pleased," Sherlock says dully. "I was excellent bait."

His brother flinches, as though the words have done him physical damage. "Sherlock, I - that wasn't my intention. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do. No matter how hard my men searched, Moriarty managed to successfully elude us. I was concerned that if he wasn't taken care of, he might try to attack you again in the future. He was building up to _something_ , and I knew that the only thing that could get him to move early was you." He looks genuinely stricken - perhaps Anthea has been telling stories about what really went on while she was apparently dead.

"I understand." Because he does, he knows how Mycroft's mind works, and in the end it was a clever plan and now Moriarty is dead. He fists shaking hands, tucking them between his knees. 

"Do you?" Mycroft asks quietly, and then before Sherlock can respond, "Anthea has gone to the hospital. She's going to need stitches, but the paramedic believes that the knife missed anything vital. I'm going to stay here and start dismantling as much of Moriarty's web as I can. Now that he's dead, I suspect Moran might be more willing to speak with us." His smile is quick, grim and cruel: Moran will have no choice.

"Sherlock and I are going home," says John, twisting back and hanging the phone up. "We'd both appreciate it if we weren't disturbed for a few days, Mycroft." His tone makes it clear that's not a suggestion.

Mycroft's eyes flick back and forth between the two of them before he nods. "I'll get the car."

John waits until Mycroft's made himself scarce before he crouches down to look Sherlock in the eyes. "I talked to Molly. Like I said, she was trying to get through to us. She wanted to let us know that she spoke to Lestrade's doctor and it turns out he's going to be fine. He'll need to be on bed rest for a couple weeks, and it may be a month or more before he returns to work. He'll probably need some physical therapy. But he'll be okay."

Fine. Okay. The words taste sweet, and Sherlock feels limp with relief. That's two people that Moriarty has failed to kill. Perhaps he was getting sloppy. "Home?" he says.

"Of course." John's hands grip him under the arms, strong and steady, and gently pull him up until he can catch his balance. He leans against his friend as they step away from the ambulance, his ankles burning with renewed vigour as he walks. John takes his weight without comment, one arm braced around Sherlock's waist to help keep him standing. They move slowly towards the car and John lets him get in first.

The driver is familiar, someone who has worked with Mycroft for a very long time, and Sherlock nods at John. "Baker Street," he says, noticing that John makes no attempt to put distance between them as the car starts up and pulls away. He's slumped directly beside him, close enough to rest his head on John's shoulder if he likes, so he does. The warmth and distant sound of John's heartbeat lull him quickly into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There won't be an update next week. Happy Holidays, guys!


	38. Chapter 38

They don't leave 221b for the next five days. To be more specific, Sherlock barely leaves John's bed for the next five days. Only when his bladder absolutely cannot take the stress anymore and threatens to just release does he get up and he always returns as quickly as possible, afraid as he stumbles back up the steps that John will have changed his mind about letting Sherlock stay there. Ridiculous, of course, considering that John is the one who helped him up there in the first place: Sherlock remembers being half asleep and exhausted down to his bones, leaning heavily on John as they entered the flat, and his resistance to being set down on the sofa. 

He'd expected to be left in his own room, but John had chosen to bring him up here.

He hadn't been in John's room for a while and he finds it a pity that he didn't have the opportunity to enjoy the experience right away. There is so much to be deduced from the state of a private dwelling, but John stripped his coat and shoes off and pulled the covers up and Sherlock was _gone_ before his mind got any say in the matter. It's curious, no matter how many hours he spends with his face pressed against John's pillow somehow the fabric still smells like John. Warm and comforting, like jam and tea and cologne and a hint of gun powder, and it's enough to help him get the first true sleep he's had since before the explosion at the pool. 

During those first couple days, he wakes periodically to the feel of a hand pressed against his forehead. "Go back to sleep," John will murmur, his blue eyes both worried and relieved. Sometimes he'll coax Sherlock to drink, usually water, but most of the time he just stands there until Sherlock fades away again. He never once so much as sat down on the edge of the bed and that's vexing, but sleep usually takes over before Sherlock has the opportunity to protest.

In due course, though, the fatigue recedes enough that his mind begins to stir and he finds himself dreaming about waking to Moriarty standing over him. That in itself is terrifying enough to stay awake for most of the third and fourth days, feigning sleep when John comes in to check on him. He suspects that John knows he's awake, but he does not want to leave and for whatever reason John seems to be willing to indulge him in this. Sherlock is all for thoroughly taking advantage of the situation because he knows it won't last forever: John's bedroom has become a temporary reprieve, but it won't be long before the rest of the world intrudes.

He knows his time has come to an end when the door opens and John walks in wearing a serious expression. Sherlock's eyes shut immediately but he listens hard. Unlike before, John doesn't feel Sherlock's forehead or stand beside the bed. He sits down and then stretches out so that they're both lying down, heads turned towards the ceiling, propped up on the same pillow. He says, "This is probably the most sleep you've got in years. You had me worried for a little while, you know, and you still have a bit of a fever, but I think it's just the after-effects of all that stress."

The present tense of the last sentence does not escape Sherlock's notice. He had not realized that he was ill - unless his body is damaged to the point of being unusable he tends not to care - but it does explain why John has been so lenient in regards to his bed. He doesn't say anything.

After a few seconds of silence, John continues. "I've been keeping up with Molly and this morning I was able to speak with Greg for the first time. He's doing a lot better. He thinks the doctors might actually release him tomorrow. If that's the case, he said he wants to come straight over here to see how you're doing. I told him that he should go home and rest, but apparently he won't be able to sleep until he's seen that you're alright with his own eyes. And since you clearly weren't up for a visit to the hospital... I didn't see how I could say no. That's alright, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock says without thinking, opening his eyes. His throat aches a little from disuse, but it's worth it just from being able to see John's brilliant smile at having got a response.

"Hello there," John says quietly. "I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to see you again."

"I've been right here."

"No you haven't, Sherlock. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I can understand that you'd need a bit of time to sort through everything that's happened. But you haven't been here. You weren't even in your mind palace. You were just... gone." His smile has gone a little sad at the edges. 

"John -" 

"It's fine, really," John interrupts before Sherlock can flounder too much. "Like I said, if anyone deserves a little time to themselves it's you. Sherlock, I - I can't tell you how sorry I am. When I think about the things that we said to you..." He rubs a hand over his face, and when it falls away the stress of the past few days is clearly visible. "I never should have jumped to conclusions like that. I just went with what Donovan said because it was easier. I'll regret putting you through that for the rest of my life. God, I should have _known_."

Sherlock watches him warily. "If it had happened again," he starts, and as soon as he registers that the words are out he stops.

John freezes. He looks up at Sherlock slowly. "That wasn't - oh my god, you were. You were. Worried. About what I'd say. If that bastard r-raped you again." The words come out in stuttered, fragmented spurts like John has to force them out. 

He looks away.

John swears softly under his breath before he reaches out, gently but firmly grasping Sherlock's chin and pulling his head back. "I want to say that I will always do the right thing by you, but I can't because unfortunately I'm human... and a bloody idiotic one sometimes. But Sherlock, from now on I will listen to you. Even if it's something I don't want to hear. I will listen. To you. No matter what anyone else says. _I will listen_."

And in between that, Sherlock hears all of the things that John doesn't say: that he will also watch to see the things that Sherlock can't give voice to, that he will try not to let the world's view of Sherlock cloud his own judgement, that he will strive to be the best - only - friend Sherlock has ever had. The last of cold ball of tension sitting hard in his belly finally eases, draining away with a sharp pang that leaves him feeling empty, drained, but also cleansed.


	39. Chapter 39

Literally fifty-three minutes after he is released from the hospital, Lestrade shows up on their doorstep. John is the one who eventually responds to the ringing doorbell, as Mrs Hudson has gone out to the shop. Sherlock has, at last, migrated from John’s bed to the sofa, but only because John had insisted that he get up, shower and eat _something_. He’s lying on his back, contemplating the ceiling and the plate of chocolate biscuits John is trying to tempt him with, when the bell starts. John shoots him an exasperated look but heads for the door.

“I expect those biscuits to be gone by the time I get back,” he says pointedly, ignoring Sherlock’s little huff. It actually pleases him to know that Sherlock is pouting about having to eat, if only because Sherlock has always displayed that sort of attitude towards food. He thinks, sometimes, about the first few days after Moriarty’s initial attack when Sherlock obediently consumed whatever was put in front of him, and loathes himself for being so damn blind and not paying more attention.

He opens the front door and blinks, stunned into silence by the sight of Greg Lestrade. The man is sheltered on either side by Molly and Sally Donovan and his face is twisted into a grimace of pain. John opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he finally gets words out. “Greg! What the fuck are you doing here when you look like that?”

“My question exactly,” mutters Donovan, shifting her grip.

“I’m here to see Sherlock,” says Lestrade, ignoring the comment. He meets John’s gaze squarely, resolutely. “I’m not leaving until I do, John. I need to make sure that he’s alright. I don't care about anything else.”

John wavers for only a few seconds before caving, knowing that Lestrade is stubborn enough to stand there until Mrs Hudson comes back and lets him in anyway. “Jesus, you should be at home,” he scolds, moving aside to let the odd party in. “You’re only going to do yourself more damage. I’m sure this isn’t what they had in the mind at the hospital when they let you go.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling him, but he wouldn’t listen,” says Molly. Her pretty face is creased in worry as she helps Lestrade to step inside. 

“I’m fine,” Lestrade says, which is such a blatant lie that John rolls his eyes. _Fine_ is not the word he would use to describe a man who can’t stand on his own, but he knows there’s no point in protesting. He takes Molly’s place for the trip up the stairs, allowing her to hover worriedly behind them just in the event that one of them loses their footing. It’s a slow trip and Lestrade is breathing heavily by the time they make it, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead and cheeks.

Sherlock looks up as they come into the room, already on his feet. The biscuits are untouched, of course, but at least his cup of tea is gone. Lestrade straightens up and gently pushes John and Donovan away, hobbling across the room of his own accord. He gets close but then he doesn’t stop, not until he’s close enough that he can reach in and place his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He pulls Sherlock in, half-falling against him, and hugs him tightly, placing one hand on top of Sherlock’s curls in a protective gesture.

For a very long moment, Sherlock remains stiff. John watches them both and can pinpoint the exact second that the tension runs out of Sherlock, leaving him weak at the knees. “Tea?” he says to Donovan and Molly, ushering them both into the kitchen so that they won’t see when Sherlock’s trembling hands come up and clutch desperately at the back of Lestrade’s coat.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do is make Donovan tea. Molly, goddess that she’s been, can have whatever the hell she wants. But Donovan? It’s really the first time he’s seen her since Sherlock admitted what happened between him and Moriarty, and John has not forgotten that she was the one leapt to conclusions first. Her involvement does not lessen the load of his own guilt, no, but it does not make him any more inclined to forgive her, either. As she and Molly sit down and he moves automatically to put the kettle on, he can’t help wondering if things would’ve come to light much sooner had she not been so ready to believe the worst about Sherlock.

The three of them remain in an uncomfortable silence as John sets out milk, cream and sugar. It seems to take an age before the water boils and he prepares the five cups of tea a little more violently than he normally would. Molly glances nervously between Donovan and John as she accepts her cup before lowering her eyes back to the table. Donovan, on the other hand, meets his gaze without flinching, her mouth twisting into a half-hearted smirk as she dumps in a spoonful of sugar.

“Go on,” she says, “I know you’re dying to have it off at me.”

John sets his jaw. “I’m angry at you, yes, for jumping to conclusions without getting all of the evidence first. But I’m not sure it’s my place to say anything.” Which is sort of not true in that he doesn’t really care if it’s his place. He’s more concerned about whether or not he’ll be able to resist punching her in the face if the lid gets removed from his anger.

“I assessed the facts and made the logical –”

“You assessed nothing!” John’s voice comes out loud, too loud judging from the way that Molly flinches. He forces himself to speak at more level tone, not wanting to distract Sherlock or Lestrade. “You’re supposed to be an _unbiased_ police sergeant, and if anyone else had been in that situation you would’ve at least seen fit to ask them questions. You let your opinion of Sherlock colour your view of the scene.”

Her cheeks flush pink and John steadies himself, a grim flicker of satisfaction flushing through him. This whole time he’s focused the majority of his anger on Moriarty, but now the threat is gone. Terminated by Sherlock and Anthea, no less. All of the rage, the _guilt_ , roiling around inside of him needs an outlet and Sergeant Sally Donovan has never been one to stand down from a fight. That’s why he’s thoroughly shocked when she straightens, lifting her head, and says two unexpected words quite clearly.

“I know.”


	40. Chapter 40

Temporarily deflated, John just stares at her. "You know?" he repeats when it becomes evident that she's not going to continue without further provocation.

"I know." Her eyes are dark and glittering and she doesn't look away, just keeps staring. "Sherlock Holmes drives me insane. He takes liberties with our crime scenes that would get anyone else kicked out, or at the very least be given a severe warning. And he gets away with it because he's got Lestrade wrapped around his little finger. He has an unholy fascination with murder, and I still stand by what I said to you that day you first followed him in. I was right. There was a body and he was the one who put it there."

"That's not -"

"You don't have to tell me, Doctor Watson, I know exactly why that bastard was killed and I don't judge Holmes one bit for doing it. I'm just saying. I let myself get carried away with what I thought about him. It was easy to let my personal opinion take over when we walked in that day." She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Her gaze is a little unfocused now, and John doesn't have to guess what she's remembering. He knows. "When it comes to Holmes, I'm biased. So is Lestrade, technically. We shouldn't have been at that scene. Someone else from NSY should've taken it, should've been the first one in, not us. It was a mistake on our - on my part, and I accept that. I regret it, even if you don't believe me."

"Sally," Molly says softly, and much to John's surprise she reaches out and puts her hand over Donovan's. Even more surprising is that Donovan gives her a weak smile and actually turns her hand over, allowing Molly to intertwine their fingers. It seems to give her the strength to finish speaking.

"I wish I had reacted differently that day, even if it was just walking out of the room and giving Holmes the opportunity to explain what happened. I played a large part in how this worked out and I..." She cuts off with a shake of her head, the words lost, and concludes with, "So you can yell at me all you like, though I doubt you'll be able to come up with something that Lestrade hasn't already said."

"That won't be necessary."

"Sherlock." John had watched the man enter the room on Lestrade's arm, honestly with the way they're leaning against each other it's hard to tell who is supporting who, but he'd remained silent when Sherlock gave him a significant glance that meant he wanted to hear what Sally had to say. He stays standing until Sherlock and Lestrade are seated. Only then does he slide into his chair. He's so close to Sherlock that their shoulders brush and he's not sure whether that's accidental or purposely engineered.

"Holmes," Donovan says, looking uncomfortable. 

"Donovan." It's almost a surprise to hear Sherlock call her by her last name instead of her first, and in a way it's more respectful: gone is the sneering, acerbic tone in which he normally drawls 'Sally', and in its place is something that sounds infinitely exhausted. Donovan grimaces.

"I'm sure you heard all that," she says to the table. "But I will say that I came to apologize."

"Don't."

"Holmes -"

"I said don't," Sherlock says sharply, and Lestrade and John both reach out to him at the same time. Instead of flinching away from their touch, as John initially fears he might, Sherlock accepts the comfort for what it is. He even leans a little closer to John. "I agree that your observation skills need a lot of work, but you are not the first person to be taken in by Moriarty. Nor were you the last. He purposely engineered that scene so that you would see what he wanted you to see."

"I should've seen through it."

"We all should have," says John, knowing that he shares an equal amount of guilt in this even if he doesn't want to admit it. More, perhaps, considering that he'd broken things off with Sherlock thanks to what turned out to be nothing more than preconceptions and incorrect assumptions. He drops his gaze, unwilling or unable to face the suddenly perceptive look Sherlock is sending in his direction.

"And I think I speak for all of us when I say that we're sorry," Lestrade adds. Even though Sherlock tries to avoid his gaze, Lestrade manages to look him squarely in the eyes. "I wanted to be there for you when he came back."

"You were in the hospital. It couldn't be avoided."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't change the fact that I hate myself for not being there to protect you."

The silence stretches on, since Sherlock doesn't seem to know how to respond to that, and is broken only when Molly knocks over her teacup. She lets out an alarmed yelp as the hot liquid sweeps across the table and jumps to her feet, stammering apologies. John gets up and grabs a cloth, wondering about the fortunate timing of the spill as he catches the tea right before it begins to drip on the floor. And like she knows exactly what's going through his mind, Molly turns her back to the others and winks at him. She stays behind to help him clean up as Sherlock and Lestrade disappear back into the other room and Donovan makes for the loo.

"You have good timing," John says at last, quietly.

Molly smiles. "It's one of my few helpful traits," she says. "People usually expect me to be a klutz, so they don't really question me too closely when something like this happens." She picks up the cup carefully, cradling it in her hands. "Will you try to fix things with Sherlock, John?"

Startled by the frank question, he nearly drops the sodden rag on the table. "I - uh - that is -"

She giggles and sets the cup in the sink before taking the cloth from him. "I'm sorry, it's really none of my business. Only... I've never seen Sherlock as happy as he was during those couple of months before all of this happened."

"I don't think..." John shakes his head to ease the tightness in his chest. "I dumped him, Molly. Over something that wasn't even his fault. I should've known, I should've seen the signs."

"Did you not hear Sherlock talking about Moriarty and how we all fell for his plans?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It's not the same."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But I think Sherlock should be the one to make that decision, don't you?" She tosses him another smile and walks out of the room. John stays where he is, speechless. 

There is far more to Molly Hooper than he realized.


	41. Chapter 41

The first time Sherlock leaves the flat he doesn't go far, just walks down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's where he spends two hours watching crap telly with her while being force fed freshly baked biscuits and chocolate cake. She doesn't know exactly what happened and she never will, but she knows enough to tell that it was something dreadful. Every time she fills his cup up with fresh tea, she gives him a pat on the shoulder or the head. Her hand is always soft and warm, and sometimes her thumb will catch and linger on a curl that insists on flopping across his forehead and brush it out of his eyes. Sherlock remains on the sofa with her until John comes home from a visit with one of his old army buddies, and only then does he go back upstairs. 

The first time he actually ventures outside is three weeks after Moriarty's death, and he goes to Tescos with John because they've "got no fucking food in the house, jesus, I feel like all we ever eat is tea and toast and takeaway". The experience of shopping for regular food is not one he is anxious to replicate at any time in the future, but it is worthwhile simply for the way he gets to watch John struggle between being amused and getting angry at him - and because John does not leave his side the whole time, he gets to see that look a lot. By the end of the trip John actually reaches over and nudges him on the shoulder and calls him an idiot, and that alone makes the trip worthwhile.

John does not go back to work at the surgery, so he's around the flat quite a lot now and that means it's nearly six weeks before Sherlock is faced with the decision to leave the flat on his own. He's sprawled on the sofa, wondering what sort of text he might be able to send John that will convince him that coming home is exponentially more interesting than a lunch with Harry could ever be, when his phone makes a familiar sound he hasn't heard for some time. He gropes for it automatically and peers down at the screen. His chest feels peculiar when he sees the name on the screen.

It's from Lestrade.

He'd recovered well from the shot, faster than the doctors had been expecting, and he'd returned to work at the end of last week. He's supposed to be on desk duty for the first little while, but no one knows better than Sherlock how unlikely that is. Lestrade has never been the sort of man who takes well to being told that he can't go out and track criminals down; he loathes paperwork and is more likely to put it off on Donovan whenever he can. He likes being active, likes the chase and the hunt. It's the reason why he hasn't accepted a promotion above detective inspector, even though he's got enough experience and recognition that one has been offered his way a handful of times.

The phone trails to a silence before ringing again. This time Sherlock answers. "Yes?"

"Got a fresh one," Lestrade says briskly, as though this is no different from any other day, as though he always would've called twice instead of sending a perfunctory text. "It's a young man. He was hit by a car an hour ago, but all of our readings suggest he actually died yesterday. Seemed like the sort of thing you'd be interested in. Will you come?"

A new case. The surge of yearning catches Sherlock by surprise, it's so sharp. He hasn't had a case from Lestrade in months, and the ridiculously simple little ones that Mycroft has been sending, silly things that Sherlock can solve without leaving the flat or even exerting any effort, have done little to assuage the old desire. But as eager as he is, he can't help recalling what happened during the last case. Lestrade was shot, had been lucky to walk away from that, and it had ultimately led to the confrontation with Moriarty. Of course, Moriarty is dead. Sherlock and Anthea had made sure of that, and Mycroft had the body burned until there was nothing left but a fine layer of ashes that had then been disposed of.

He could go. He should go. He _wants_ to go. Sherlock glances at the door. Leaving the first time, even with John, was difficult. The idea that anyone could be working for Moriarty had been difficult to let go of, and several times when they were surrounded by a crowd of people - or even just three or four - John had put a hand on his arm or shoulder and just left it there until Sherlock felt more capable of breathing. That idea lingered even now. But the alternative was staying inside the flat and never leaving unless John was with him, and what kind of future was that? He couldn't depend on John forever, not when it was likely that at some point John was going to find another girlfriend and leave...

"Sherlock?"

"Yes," he says before he can stop to think too closely, before the doubts take over. It's been too long since he has worked on a case. Even his blog has been silent. He needs something to do. "Yes, I'll come. Text me the address."

Lestrade hesitates for a few seconds. "Alright, if you're sure. Is John with you?"

"He's having lunch with his sister."

"Do you want me to text him too?"

He hangs up in lieu of a response, because he's not sure how to answer that, and gets up. By the time he's dressed in a suit and pulling his coat on, Lestrade has come through with the address - and a couple of photos. He flips through them as he makes his way down the stairs, noting that the scene is surprisingly tame as there is little to no blood. It does seem like an interesting case, and all it requires is walking through the front door, fetching a cab and riding to the scene.

Sherlock does not allow himself to pause, to dwell, just opens the door and steps through.


	42. Chapter 42

In the end the case turns out to be absurdly simple, and a brief glance at the area surrounding the corpse tells Sherlock exactly what happened and how. He shakes his head at Anderson's idiocy and says, "Obviously this was a set up. Clearly this man did not walk in front of a car. He has been dead for several hours, which I am relieved to note you actually realized. Otherwise I would've been at a complete loss in regards to your deductive abilities." He steps around the body, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "You are looking for a scorned girlfriend, possibly a wife, in her early thirties. She was the one who hit him with her car. After the fight she panicked and no doubt came up with this ridiculous scheme to try and hide the murder."

"How the hell do you know that?" Anderson says, sounding pissy. He's standing about five feet away, looking for all the world as though he wants to settle his hands on his hips and pout. "There's no way you could know that."

"I observe," Sherlock responds, kneeling down and gesturing to the body's right arm. Just barely visible on the sleeve are a few chips of paint. Blue paint. At first glance they could be taken for an art's student close encounter with a paint brush. Sherlock knows better. "This car, as even you can plainly see, is white. The one which killed him was blue." He looks up at Lestrade. "If you search their residence, I expect you'll find the car in question. I doubt she'll have got rid of it yet; doing so too quickly would provoke too many questions from family and friends."

"You're just guessing. There's no way -"

"Anderson, enough," Lestrade cuts in wearily. "You know as well as I do that it's worth checking out. Thank you, Sherlock. I'll send a couple of officers over to the house to have a look around."

By which he means, to arrest the girlfriend. Sherlock rises to his feet, realizing that he's a bit disappointed that the case turned out to be so easily solved. He'd been hoping for something more involved that would require real concentration. As it is, this was barely worth leaving the flat for. And yet he does not feel any of the annoyance that he normally would at this point, when Scotland Yard has wasted his time yet again. Being outside of the flat again is strange. He'd nearly forgotten what it's like to stand outside with the cold wind against his face. But at the same time, it's... well, for a few precious seconds he had forgotten about Moriarty, and that's more than he's had in weeks.

Anderson stalks off muttering and Lestrade gives direction to two officers standing nearby before he turns back to Sherlock. Instantly, Sherlock says, "There was no need to coax me out of the flat with a case like this, Lestrade. I would have preferred going to the morgue to collect some new body parts for my experiments. It would've made the trip more worth my time."

Lestrade's mouth twitches, like he's fighting back a smile. "How do you know that I wasn't testing you to make sure that you've still got it?" he asks, and when Sherlock casts him a genuinely affronted look he laughs out loud. "Okay, I'm sorry. You've been cooped up in the flat for a long time and I thought the only thing that would make you come out was a case. Can't blame me for trying." He tucks his hands into the pocket of his coat. "How are you, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine." He hasn't forgotten the warmth of Lestrade's embrace, the steady hands that had clutched him close and breathed a litany of gratitude without ever saying a word. Sometimes he likes to close his eyes and remember it, the way he couldn't help but relax into it.

"Really," Lestrade says, clearly sceptical.

"Yes. I came, didn't I?" And without John.

In spite of the unspoken latter part of the comment, Lestrade seems to pick up on it regardless. His frown deepens. "Are you and John having trouble?"

"No."

"Oh. I just wondered... I never see you two... together. Not that I miss walking in on you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. The one and only time Lestrade had "walked in" on them, he and John had only been sitting close together on the sofa kissing. Hardly as scandalous as Lestrade makes it sound. "That's because we're not."

"You're not?"

"We broke up," Sherlock says shortly. He's had time to think about this and what it means, particularly over the past couple of weeks, and he has come to discover that he does not blame John in the least. Moriarty's goal was to shatter Sherlock's world apart and he'd done so marvellously, crafting a plan that had left waves in his wake for months after. That John had stuck with him in any way when a lesser man would have pulled away entirely proves that there is something permanent between them, at least as far as Sherlock is concerned. It's just not romantic, strictly friends, and he's fine with that.

"And you're fine with that," Lestrade says, like he can read exactly what's going through Sherlock's mind.

Instead of the yes that should come out, Sherlock finds himself saying, "I have to be, don't I?"

"What do you mean?"

"John went out on a date with Sarah, Lestrade, and even after that ended he made no attempt to start anything up with me again," Sherlock says, unable to keep the impatience from coming through. He gets tired of explaining obvious things after a while, and it seems that the break has not made him any better at it.

Lestrade stares at him for nearly a full minute, mouth opening and closing, before he finally gets out a strangled laugh. "You were - have you been _waiting on John_? To make the first move? After he broke up with you because you were... Oh my god." He puts a hand over his face and shakes his head. "Sherlock. I think you and John need to have a serious talk."

"As far as I can tell, there's nothing to talk about."

"Yeah, there is." All traces of amusement gone, Lestrade now looks perfectly serious. "Because I can tell you right now that if you don't, nothing will ever happen between you two. You'll both keep thinking that neither of you wants the other, and a few years down the road one or both of you will find someone else. And if that's what you want, that's fine. But if you _want_ John, if you want to have a relationship with him, you need to talk." He claps Sherlock gently on the shoulder. "I know that's not what you wanted to hear. Sorry, kiddo."


	43. Chapter 43

John is waiting for him by the time that Sherlock gets home. Or rather, he’s sitting on the sofa looking at the telly and trying to pretend that he’s completely involved in whatever inane show is playing and not waiting at all. But Sherlock can tell from the mussed state of his clothing and the numerous cups of half-drunk tea that John’s not been passing as peaceful an afternoon as he’d like Sherlock to believe. He comes to a stop just inside the door, starts removing his outer clothing, and waits for John to speak.

“You had a case,” John says at last, when it becomes obvious that Sherlock is not going to be the one to break the silence. “I got back and… you weren’t here.”

The hot, swooping feeling of guilt is as unfamiliar as it is unwelcome. Even after all this time Sherlock isn’t used to the idea that someone might _worry_ about him. “I’m sorry,” he says, actually meaning it, and then hesitates because he’s not sure what else to add. 

“It’s okay. Lestrade texted me to let me know where you were before I had the chance to call Mycroft and send out the search party.” John smiles a little, but the tilt of his head makes it clear that he’s serious. He'd panicked when he found Sherlock gone. He lifts the remote and mutes the telly. “He said that he had a case he’d called you in on. Want to tell me about it?”

Sherlock finishes hanging his coat up and comes closer. He does want to tell John about the case, he realizes. It’s been a long time since he had the opportunity to regale John with deductions, even if this case had been simple enough that even Scotland Yard would’ve stumbled across the answer sooner or later. He sits down on the edge of the sofa and says, “You haven’t dated anyone since Sarah.”

John blinks and his lips part, though nothing comes out. Sherlock stares back at him, equally surprised because he had not intended to say that. He blames Lestrade, the interfering bastard, but it’s too late to take the words back now. A heavy silence falls between them and Sherlock tries to figure out how to break it, but the longer it continues the less certain he becomes. He starts to wonder if he would be able to convince John to forget that he’d said anything and glances at the kitchen. Maybe tea would smooth the way?

“I didn’t know you were paying attention,” John says at last, drawing Sherlock’s attention back to him. “You’re right, though. I went on one date with Sarah and that was… god, just a mistake.” He shakes his head ruefully. “I never figured myself to be the kind of guy who’d date someone on the rebound, especially an ex-girlfriend, but there you have it.”

“The rebound?”

“Yeah. I know you’ve never gone on a date just to get over someone, but us normal guys…” John shrugs and gives a little self-deprecating laugh. “Like I said, it was a big mistake. Sarah could tell I was still totally hung up on you. She dumped me that night at the hospital, not that there was really anything between us by that point. No one likes being dumped, but it was for the best. Sarah deserves better.”

Sherlock stares at him, narrowing his eyes slightly. It’s common now, around John, to feel like he’s missing something, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. “You weren’t upset that she broke up with you?”

“Well, no. It was inevitable, all things considered.”

“I don’t understand.”

John huffs a little, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Why the sudden curiosity about me dating? You know that’s not where I was today, right? I was with Harry. I told you that before I left.”

“I know.”

“It’s not something you have to worry about, anyway. I won’t be dating for a while.”

Sherlock scoffs and glances away, frustrated. “You’re constantly flirting with women, John.”

“I used to,” John agrees, easy, and Sherlock realizes that he’s right. John hasn’t flirted with any women for a long time. Not the nurses at the hospital, not the pretty cashier at the shop, not even the woman who walks her dog past 221b every morning in the hopes that she’ll run into John on the way by. “Not so much anymore. I guess I figure that there’s really not that much point.”

“Why not?” Sherlock can’t resist asking, never one to shy away even if he’s not certain that he’ll receive the answer he wants. It feels as though he and John have been dancing around this issue for weeks, never having discussed anything in the aftermath of the pool, just letting their relationship fall to dust and bits. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he _needs_ this answer.

The look Sherlock gets is surprisingly steady, impossible to turn away from as surely as though John has gripped his chin to keep their eyes connected. “I had what I wanted and I didn’t even know it at the time. I was stupid and fucked everything up. I can’t fix it, wouldn’t even know how to begin, and frankly I’m not sure that I deserve to be able to.” His blue eyes wander away then, gazing unfocused in the direction of the screen. “I could date, but it doesn’t really interest me. For one thing it seems cruel to hold any women I might meet to that standard. No one can compare to what I had before. So I guess, right now there doesn’t seem to be any point in trying.”

“So you’re not dating,” Sherlock says, just to be sure, cautious and yet feeling a small surge of hope. He may well have interpreted this situation incorrectly. He’s not sure what he expected from this conversation, certainly not this, but he keeps thinking about Lestrade and his certainty that there was something he and John needed to talk about. For once, it seems, the man may have been right. He’ll have to mark the occasion in his phone.

John shoots him a small smile and starts to sit up. “No. No dating.”

“Good,” Sherlock growls, his hand shooting out to catch John’s collar and drag him closer. John comes, sputtering like a stranded fish, too surprised to protest the manhandling. Sherlock hasn’t been this close to anyone in weeks and he’s amazed to discover that it feels good. His body remembers this, this warmth, the feel of John’s muscles pressed against his, and he likes it. Blindly he tips his head down, searching, and with a strangled sound John regains his balance and surges up to knock their mouths together in a kiss.


	44. Chapter 44

Coming home to find the flat empty had taken about five years off of John's life. He'd stood in the doorway for several minutes, blinking around as though that would be enough to magically force Sherlock to materialize, and it had taken him longer than it should have to grasp the fact that the detective was well and truly gone. It was only a timely text message from Lestrade, bearing the short and concise words "Sherlock's with me, new case", that had kept him from going into a complete panic. As it was, the only thing he'd felt capable of was collapsing into onto the sofa and remaining there while he waited for the pounding of his heart and the adrenaline coursing through him to slow.

Sherlock looks different when he comes in, or rather he looks a little more like he used to: the flush of a case on his face, eyes bright with the opportunity to have stretched his mind and skills, and it's not until those long fingers are twining around John's collar and yanking him in close that it occurs to him there might be another reason for Sherlock's unusual headiness entirely. John goes along willingly enough, too shocked to do much but breathe into Sherlock's face, and when that mouth comes down searching he can't keep himself from meeting it. 

He doesn't allow it to last long, though, pulling back and placing a shaking hand flat against Sherlock's chest. The cloth is cool to the touch and he gulps, briefly meeting Sherlock's gaze before looking away again. "What did - why did you do that?"

"You said you didn't want to date anyone else."

"Yes, but - " He finds himself staring at his hand, at his fingers which have somehow tightened into Sherlock's shirt. There's barely enough fabric for him to hold onto, it's so tight, and it's silky beneath his fingertips, warming quickly. He swallows hard. "I didn't. Think that _you_ would. I mean, how can you -"

"Finish a sentence, John," Sherlock says, and he actually sounds _amused_.

"I dumped you," John says woodenly, because he sees no humour in this at all. For the past couple of months he's done everything he can think of to make his betrayal up to Sherlock, and he's still convinced that he'll never be able to do it. All of the apologies in the world can't even begin to atone for the things he said, the things he did, and he can't understand why or how they came to be sitting here so close together, his lips still burning from the pressure of Sherlock's kiss. It doesn't make any sense.

"We broke up, yes, but you just implied that you are interested in more." Sherlock looks briefly uncertain, fingers flexing against John's hip. "Have I come to the wrong conclusion? When you said you weren't interesting in dating, I thought you meant that I was the exception. But -"

"No! I - that is, you are the exception. You always have been. I just..." Trailing off, he shakes his head like that's going to help this situation suddenly change into something that he can understand. "Sherlock, I broke up with you because you were raped."

"You didn't know."

"But I should have," John says desperately. "I should've known, I should've asked more questions and I didn't. I let my own self confidence issues and doubts get in the way, and I just believed Sally and I - god I'm so sorry, words can't even begin to express how sorry I am for everything that I put you through. How can you forgive me for that?"

Sherlock blinks at him, and in the light his eyes look blue. "You are only human," he says at last, the words barely audible. "I can't fault you for making an incorrect deduction, John. You're an idiot, after all."

John stares at him, mouth open a little, because he honestly does not know how to respond to this. It's flipping his world view upside down, setting everything he wants out on a silver platter, and he's pretty sure that Sherlock might have actually broken him. This is too much, too big, and his brain can't accept it. 

The silence drags on until Sherlock smirks a little and elaborates. "I do not blame you for falling for Moriarty's game, just like I do not fault Mycroft or Lestrade or even Donovan. If anything, the blame lies with myself. I allowed Moriarty to manipulate my mind and make me a part of his game."

"Don't," John snarls, hot anger flooding through him. He can't bear listening to Sherlock say those kinds of things, not when he knows that there's a chance Sherlock might actually believe them. "Don't say that. It was not your fault."

"It wasn't yours, either."

It's tempting to protest that, to try to find the words that will make Sherlock see that really it is John's fault. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "And you're sure that this - this is what you want? With me? Because you know I'm not going anywhere. If that's what you mean with the questions about dating. I'm here. To stay, I mean. As long as you want me. Dating or not."

The tension noticeably eases from Sherlock's body and John lets out a shuddering exhale, nodding. He'd suspected as much, though he was hoping that he was wrong. "I'm not going anywhere," he repeats, quieter this time, lifting his hand and gently pulling Sherlock's fingers away from his collar. "You don't have to do this."

"Don't tell me what I do and don't have to do," Sherlock says, the words low and sharp. He easily snags an arm around John's waist and yanks him back down, pinning John to the sofa. "You don't know what I want, John. I'm not nearly as damaged as you seem to think I am."

"I don't think you're damaged," John says, too shocked to say much else. "I... I think that you have some things to work through, but I just didn't want to -" His sentence is cut off by the mouth pressing against his, slow and careful and short, Sherlock pulling back just far enough to glare at him. John stares at him.

"I want this," he says, each word carefully pronounced, and then waits.

John has always tried to be a strong man, and he knows what the right answer here is. But god help him, in this he can't help being weak. "I want you too," he whispers, the affirmation easing something deep in his chest. He shudders, fisting his hands in Sherlock's shirt, throat too tight to fully express what it means to have a second chance at something he thought for sure he'd lost.


	45. Chapter 45

It's light when Sherlock opens his eyes, so bright that for a few seconds he can't make out anything except for a series of dark spots that keep flashing in and out right in front of him. He blinks rapidly, registering his bedroom ceiling beyond the spots, and listens carefully over the sound of his breathing; as expected, the light knock at the door, followed by the even quieter sound of his name being called, that originally woke him up comes again. "Come in," he says, rolling over and sitting up. 

The door opens just enough for John to poke his head in. If he's surprised to see Sherlock in bed, he doesn't show it. "Lestrade texted me when he couldn't get you on your phone," he says. "He wants to meet us at the morgue, something about a body. I'm not sure of the exact details and based on the pictures he sent I'm not sure I want to be." He makes a face.

"Is it interesting?" Sherlock inquires, already rising. He strides over to his closet and begins selecting a fresh suit to wear, the last haze of sleep fading quickly.

"I think so, but you can see for yourself if you want." John tosses him the phone. Sherlock catches it easily, flicking through the photos with growing interest. It's annoying that Lestrade wants to meet at the morgue, as it means the body has been moved and the original crime scene will have been erased or contaminated so thoroughly as to be useless. So many details will have been lost and it's all too frequent that photographs, no matter how crisp, do not do justice. He scoffs and flips the phone shut, setting it aside.

"I have to wonder if the real reason he wants to meet there is because of Molly."

"Sherlock!" John folds his arms and glares. "Lestrade's a professional, you know that. Whatever is or isn't going on between him and Molly, he'd never compromise a case like that and you know it."

"They're dating," Sherlock says mulishly, refusing to feel scolded. 

"I don't care whether you think they're dating. You wait to say anything until they're ready to talk about it."

Sherlock glances at John out of the corner of his eye. This is one of those things he will never understand, one of those little nuances of society that bore him so thoroughly. If Lestrade and Molly are dating - and they are, anyone who pays even a bit of attention can see that - surely it shouldn't matter who knows? Just like the fact that he and John have resumed their relationship, however slowly things may be progressing, should be public knowledge. And yet it's not. Because John doesn't seem to feel like he's ready to let anyone else know yet. It's not something they've come out and discussed, but Sherlock can read John this well at least.

“And if they’re never ready? I suppose I’m expected to hold my silence forever.”

John slowly lets his arms drop to his sides, brow furrowing as he registers that Sherlock has a little too much spite in his tone to be referring solely to Molly and Lestrade. “Sherlock –”

“I need to get dressed.” Sherlock turns away, deeming the subject finished, and begins pulling off his pyjama top. The touch of a hand on his bare shoulder makes him freeze. He and John have not explored beyond kissing during the past two weeks. John’s insisting they take it slow and Sherlock hasn’t fought him on the subject. Even the passionate kissing they’d done on the sofa two nights ago, hands wandering no further than above the waist and over clothing, had left him reeling, almost overwhelmed with the sensations flooding his body. Slow is good.

John’s hand is warm, the fingertips curving gently into his flesh, pressing against bone. His body relaxes into it of its own accord, and only then does John say softly, “You act like you think I’m… I’m _ashamed_ of you or something ridiculous like that.”

Sherlock breathes deep and says nothing.

“That’s what you think,” John says, a note of incredulity seeping into his voice. “Do you even know… Sherlock, look at me.” He steps closer, shifting around, free hand palming Sherlock’s cheek until Sherlock can’t help looking into his eyes. “I’m not ashamed of you, of us, of this. I could say that I didn’t want to rush you, but the truth is…” It’s his turn to take a deep breath. “I was being selfish. I was worried that when people found out they might try to convince you that I’m not good for you after everything that happened.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock says flatly.

“I know, but that’s what I thought. What I think. I’m sorry. If I’d known it was upsetting you so much, I would’ve brought it up with you a lot sooner.” His grip tightens slightly, as though he can will Sherlock to believe him through strength alone. “I’m _not_ ashamed of you, Sherlock. I never have been and I never will be. We’re moving on, together, and that’s… that’s pretty damn good if you ask me. If you want people to know that we’re in a relationship, I have no problem with that.”

He takes a moment to study John’s familiar, earnest face and decides that what he’s hearing is the truth. Sherlock settles his hands on John’s hips. First John had laid to rest the notion that he would someday leave, and now this. The last of Sherlock’s reservations are fading one by one, and he knows that given enough time there will be none left. “No one can change my mind about you, John. Frankly I can’t think of anyone worth my time that would try.”

John smiles a little. “Well, you are an idiot like that.”

Sherlock huffs at that, liking the way that this close he can feel John’s laugh just as well as hear it. He lets himself kiss John lightly, just once, a lingering touch that is nothing like anything else he’d ever experienced until John came into his life. Against John’s warm mouth, he murmurs, “We have a case.”

“Yeah, we do.” John breaks the kiss with a sigh, his cheeks flushed. “You get dressed. I’ll text Lestrade back and say we’re coming.”

 _We’re_ coming. Sherlock likes the sound of that. He lets go reluctantly, watching as John walks out and shuts the door behind him. Only then does he resume stripping, pulling his suit on as quickly as possible so that they can leave before the case gets any colder. At one time being alone in the room would’ve been enough to make him panic, but not anymore. Because he knows that there is no one else on the other side waiting to come in. There’s just John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard as it is to believe this story is over. Thank you so much for the wonderful comments and supports, and I hope you all enjoyed reading.
> 
> Please come visit me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/)!


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